One of the funny things about my life as a Catholic priest is that, even though I don’t have kids of my own, God’s made sure I’m never short on young people to look after. I don’t live in a rectory like most priests. Instead, I’ve got an apartment in the Newman Catholic Center—which is actually two beautiful old houses next door to each other.  And because we rent out extra apartments to recent college grads who are missionaries with FOCUS (The Fellowship of Catholic University Students) I’m surrounded every year by a rotating cast of four to six twenty-somethings. Two guys live right overhead, a couple of young women live next door. It’s like having my own slightly holier version of a frat house. I never imagined, back in seminary, that my priesthood would come with daily reminders of what it’s like to be the “dad” in a house full of energetic, well-meaning kids.

Thank you for taking the time to read this homily for the 15th Sunday in Ordinary Time (July 13, 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

More than once, I’ve found myself thinking, “What the heck are they doing up there?” and fighting the urge to yell up the stairs—only to realize I sound just like my own dad did when I was their age (with slightly more colorful language). One of these “dad” moments showed up unexpectedly a few months back. It was a Saturday morning, and I’d already had an odd day—two funerals in town, not exactly my usual weekend itinerary. As I pulled up to the Newman Center, my phone rang. One of the guys was calling. From the way he tried to sound calm, I knew something was off. “Hey Father… sorry to bother you—do you know how to turn off the water in the Newman Center?”

Within seconds, I was sprinting up the thirty-three steps, trying to wrap my head around what kind of aquatic disaster awaited me. I found him in the basement, phone still in hand, doors open from attic to basement. His fellow missionary, meanwhile, was on the third floor, desperately hunched over the toilet, holding things together—literally—to stop a flood.

Once I showed Missionary #1 which handle shuts off the main water supply, I raced upstairs to find the scene of the crime. In the corner was a laptop streaming a YouTube tutorial: “How to Fix a Toilet.” It turns out plumbing isn’t quite as easy as it looks online. The guys explained their toilet had been running all morning. They’d tried to fix it, watched videos, and already made a couple of Home Depot runs. They promised they were “this close” to fixing it—right as the bathroom nearly turned into a running baptismal font.

I was about one phone call away from summoning our emergency plumber, but the guys insisted they could handle it. Honestly, I had my doubts (when you don’t know how to turn off the water, that’s usually a sign), but I let them try. And you know what? After a few hours, another hardware store run, and a lot of nervous prayer on my part, they actually pulled it off.

How often do we overcomplicate things? My missionary roommates turned a simple fix into an epic saga of YouTube tutorials and panicked trips to Home Depot. But we do the same with our faith, don’t we? We turn something straightforward into something convoluted and intimidating.

Today’s scripture readings drive that point home. In Deuteronomy, Moses tells the people that God’s commands aren’t hidden or mysterious. They’re not up in the sky or across the sea, requiring some heroic quest. No, Moses says, “It is something very near to you, already in your mouths and in your hearts.” God’s will is not an impossible puzzle.

But just because something is simple doesn’t mean it’s easy. Loving God with all our heart, all our soul, and all our strength—making Him first, above our comfort, our wants, our status—demands real change. It means putting aside our self-importance, and admitting we aren’t the center of the universe.

The Gospel brings this even closer to home. This scholar coming to Jesus in this passage, doesn’t seek to trap Him but rather is searching genuinely for clarity. He knows the law—over 600 commandments that shaped every part of Jewish life, from worship to food, from relationships with family and friends to strangers. For generations, these laws defined God’s people and helped them survive exile and hardship. It was a lot to keep track of.

So when the scholar sums it all up as to what’s most important, what’s first and foremost, what’s at the heart of all of those 600+ laws —“Love the Lord your God with all your heart… and your neighbor as yourself”—he’s absolutely right.  But then he asks Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?” Maybe hoping to draw the line somewhere comfortable—only “my people,” only those like me.

But Jesus doesn’t play that game. With the parable of the Good Samaritan, He blows up the fences and loopholes. Our neighbor isn’t just the one who’s easy to love or checks all our boxes. It’s the stranger, the outsider, even the one we’d rather avoid. Jesus makes it simple, but He makes it impossible to ignore: Love God, love your neighbor—no excuses, no fine print.

I was reminded just how hard—and how necessary—that is the other day at the gym. There was a guy working out in a t-shirt with a harsh, actually a profane anti-Israel message printed right across the front. It honestly jarred me. I know our world is full of heated debates and deep pain around issues like this. And in this instance, it’s even more complicated as Israel is both a nation and a people; the history and politics are incredibly complex. But standing there, as someone outside that conflict, I felt uncomfortable. And I thought: if I feel this way, how much more painful would it be for someone who is Jewish to see that?   Someone who may actually be in political agreement with this fellow about some of the issues but also looks to Israel as something more than a derogatory talking point.  How comfortable would he be doing reps right next to this guy?  Coming home and seeing this Sunday’s Gospel, I couldn’t get that whole episode out of my head. It reminded me that loving our neighbor isn’t just about loving those who are easy to love, but also those whose presence or words make us uncomfortable.

That’s where Jesus’ challenge lands: not in the safety of theory, but in the messiness of real life. It’s there—in the uncomfortable, in the encounter with the “other”—that we find out whether we really want to love our neighbor, or just the neighbors we choose.

And that’s the Gospel’s simple, demanding truth. God’s command isn’t far away or mysterious. It’s right here in front of us, in our hearts and in our hands. It’s not about heroic quests or complicated spiritual gymnastics. It’s about choosing—again and again—to love God first, and to love the person right in front of us, especially when it’s hardest. That’s where we meet Christ. That’s how we become who God calls us to be.

So who is your neighbor, right now? Who is God asking you to love—maybe even when everything in you wants to turn away? Today, the invitation is simple. Don’t overcomplicate it. Let’s pray for the courage to do what Jesus asks: to love, boldly, in the mess of real life.