If you’re anything like me, you’ve got a love-hate relationship with your gadgets. We’re surrounded by screens, passwords, and endless updates that promise to make life easier, but somehow always manage to make it more stressful. I know I’m not alone in this. I’ve lost count of how many times my phone or laptop has left me muttering under my breath, convinced that technology is out to get me. And now, with AI thrown into the mix, maybe I’m not so paranoid after all.
Thank you for taking the time to read this homily for the 18th Sunday in Ordinary Time (August 3, 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
A few years ago, I thought I’d finally outsmarted the cyber-universe. My old laptop had basically become a glorified paperweight — slow, glitchy, battery dying for no reason. So I made the big decision: I’d spring for a new one. I was probably Dell’s dream customer, because I went all out and upgraded every option, even though I didn’t know the difference between RAM, megabytes, or any of the chips. But I was convinced that now I was the proud owner of a machine that could probably run NASA. This thing was fast, powerful, and honestly, a little intimidating. Suddenly, I could tackle a million tasks at once, organize years of scattered files, and for a moment, I felt on top of the world.
Of course, it didn’t last. Not even a few months later, I took my shiny new laptop on a trip, packed it carefully, and put it in the back of my Jeep. When I got home, I got sidetracked—something shiny on the lawn, classic ADD me—and when my friend opened the trunk, my precious laptop tumbled out and crashed onto the pavement. I watched in horror, like a slow-motion car crash, and all I could do was shout, “NOOO!”
Back inside, I was actually praying that it would turn on. But the screen was gone. So I jumped back in the Jeep and raced to Best Buy, hoping the Geek Squad could pull off a miracle. They call themselves “geeks,” right? Well, so much for that—they were no help. They told me I had to go back to Dell, so I called Dell, desperate for a fix, muttering prayers the whole time. But God was quiet, and I ended up with a repair bill as painful as the weeks I had to wait to get it back.
Looking back, I realize how ridiculous it was—how quickly I let a piece of technology become something I prayed about, something I thought I couldn’t live without. There are people in the world with real needs, real prayers, and here I was, hoping for a miracle for my laptop.
That memory came flooding back because of today’s first reading from Ecclesiastes. This is the one and only time in the three-year Sunday lectionary that we hear from this Old Testament book. It’s almost as if the Church slips it in quietly, over the Summer of all times, hoping we might not notice. And honestly, it’s not hard to see why. Ecclesiastes is blunt, almost unspiritual. The words we heard today that open the whole book could be a summary of things to come: “Vanity of vanities, all things are vanity.” There’s even a modern translation that subtitles this passage, “I hate life.” And their spin on the words we just heard makes it even clearer: “What’s the point of working your fingers to the bone if you hand over what you worked for to someone who never lifted a finger for it?” Not exactly the pep talk you expect at Mass.
But there’s a reason Ecclesiastes is in the Scriptures, and a reason the Church gives it to us. Saints across the centuries have found deep wisdom here. The author, Qoheleth—the preacher—sometimes sounds like a modern-day philosopher who’s seen everything, tried everything, and found it all ultimately empty.
He isn’t an atheist, though. He knows God is real. He’s a believer, and that’s what makes his honesty so striking. He’s willing to admit: if you’re looking for ultimate meaning in the things of this world—your work, your awards, your popularity, your money, your stuff, your gadgets—you’re going to come up empty every time. When we limit our vision and our prayers to just the things of earth, we set ourselves up for disappointment and disillusionment.
And that’s the setup for today’s Gospel. If you remember what we’ve been hearing over the last few weeks, Jesus has been gently but persistently teaching his disciples about what really matters. Just last week, he was showing them how to pray—giving them the words of the Our Father, inviting them to see God as their loving Father and to seek what truly lasts. He’s been guiding them to go deeper, to let their prayers shape their hearts, to want more than what the world can offer.
Right in the middle of this, someone in the crowd interrupts: “Teacher, tell my brother to divide the inheritance with me.” You can almost feel the air go out of the room. Here’s Jesus, opening up the mystery of prayer, inviting everyone to entrust their hearts to God—and this guy’s burning question is about money. And it’s not that Jesus doesn’t care about justice or family hurts. He knows how real those wounds are. But He also sees the bigger picture. He calls the man “friend” and points out that, in his fixation on this inheritance, he’s missing the reality of God standing right in front of him. It’s as if Jesus is saying, “Of all the things happening in the world, this is what you want to bring to me?”
Jesus doesn’t just answer; he tells a story. A parable about a man who has everything—barns full, storehouses overflowing—and who thinks he’s finally arrived. But it’s all for nothing. He’s so focused on securing his future with stuff that he never stops to think about what actually matters, and when his life is suddenly demanded of him, he finds out too late that none of it lasts.
That’s the heart of Jesus’ teaching here. He’s been leading his friends to pray—to reach for God, to open their hearts, to ask for what’s truly good. Now, faced with a very human, very relatable concern, he gently redirects: don’t let lesser things crowd out your soul. Don’t get so tangled up in your own worries, even the legitimate ones, that you lose sight of the bigger invitation.
So today’s readings are really a spiritual check-in. As we walked into Mass, what was on our minds and in our hearts? Were we praying for promotions, for success, for solutions to our latest problem—which, let’s be honest, might just be a broken laptop? There’s nothing wrong with bringing our needs to God. But Jesus calls us to check our priorities, to let our prayers lift our eyes higher, to remember what actually matters.
Life moves quickly. The things we chase—possessions, inheritances, even our beloved gadgets—are never the whole story. The real treasure is found in knowing Christ, loving Him, and seeing Him in others. When we put everything in that light, so much of what seemed urgent or essential fades into the background. Ecclesiastes gives us perspective; Jesus offers us the invitation. If we’re willing to see it—and to keep our hearts open to what really lasts—then everything else can finally find its proper place.
