I’ve been thinking about something that always made my grandfather shake his head. When I was a kid, he’d catch my brothers and me planted in front of our Living Room television playing what we thought was amazing Atari video game system and just sigh: “You kids don’t know hardship…” It was the kind of thing that would get us to roll our eyes, but as I’ve gotten older, I get where he was coming from.

His generation survived the Great Depression and two world wars, raising families in homes or apartments where you counted your blessings if the heat worked and the roof didn’t leak. My parents? Running water in their houses, real jobs, and a black-and-white TV in the living room. I still remember when the cable TV box was installed, suddenly boosting our channels from 10 to 30, and I remember the thrill (and frustration) of sending an email through dial-up—minutes of hissing and clicking before you could even say “hello” to the world.

Thank you for taking the time to read this homily for the FIRST SUNDAY OF ADVENT (November 30, 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

Now my nieces can FaceTime from their bedroom to Paris, watch any movie in history on their phones, order pizza without talking to another human, and wonder how I ever survived waiting for a ride in the rain. The point is, every generation thinks the next one has it easier.   And we know there’s truth to that, not just in technology or comfort, but spiritually, too.

I wonder sometimes: has faith gotten easier for us, or just softer? Not so long ago, every Catholic abstained from meat on Fridays—still an expectation, but honestly, one that most forget (or have never learned). If you wanted to receive communion on Sunday, you fasted from all food and drink from midnight. Now, the fast is just one hour—if we even remember it, and then we whisper, “Is that an hour from the start of Mass, or when I get in line?” Our faith got a little more “convenient.” Convenience is hard to argue with. But it’s even harder not to wonder if we’re missing something vital.

This season of Advent that we start today—has become for many a time where our busy lives are even more so with extra duties and expectations: decorating, gift lists, parties, ugly sweaters. No knock on decorating, gift lists, or parties—but for us as Catholics, Advent used to mean something very different. As far back as the sixth century, whole communities treated it like another Lent, calling it “Saint Martin’s Lent:” forty days of real fasting and penance, right before Christmas. In some places, they fasted three days every week, getting their hearts—more than their homes—ready for Christ. Penance wasn’t about guilt or suffering for its own sake. It was about clearing space, inside ourselves, for joy.

But somewhere along the line, we got nervous. “Too heavy. Too negative. Catholic guilt.” So, we lightened up. Modernized. Now, Advent barely has a whiff of penance in most places—no fasting, no abstinence, sometimes not even a mention in the homily.

So what took its place? If I’m honest, I see it in my own life, too—a rush of busyness, shopping, party-planning, sending cards, trip logistics. And, yes, the annual December culture war: “Merry Christmas” versus “Happy Holidays.” As if keeping Christ in Christmas is mainly about “winning” at Starbucks. We get all fired up defending Christianity on social media—and I’m guilty of getting pulled into it, too—but how often do we stop and ask: Is Christ anywhere near my own heart this season?

We can be so busy trying to “unsecularize” the season in public that we forget how easy it is for our interior life to get just as distracted. Advent becomes a defensive stance, instead of the wake-up call and inner adventure it’s meant to be.

St. Paul’s words today land like a cold splash of water: “It is the hour now for you to awake from sleep.” Not later—now. Not once the semester ends, or after work slows down, or after we stop feeling overwhelmed. Now means now.

And Paul knows exactly what dulls us—carousing, jealousy, rivalry, those moments we’re restless for distraction, hungry for attention, swept into drama. If I’m real with myself, I see just how easily my attention gets scattered. We’re no different from those early Christians that St Paul was writing to. We swap out Roman banquets for bottomless brunch, the thrill of gossip for doomscrolling, and we dose ourselves with everything—except what actually satisfies the soul.

What Paul wants isn’t perfection, but wakefulness. Too much comfort, too much stimulation, too much of anything? It makes us numb to the things that really matter—numb to love, numb to God, numb even to ourselves and the needs of people right in front of us.

This season of Advent is meant to pull us back and remind us what’s at stake. Advent, at its heart, is not just remembering that Jesus came as a baby in Bethlehem. Yes, that’s history. But it’s also God’s promise: He’s coming again, and coming personally, even now. If we’re spiritually asleep, we’ll miss Him entirely.

Jesus drives this home in the Gospel: The flood didn’t catch people because they were evil. They were just doing what everyone does—living ordinary lives, but with no awareness of the bigger story happening around them. It’s haunting—how easy it is to be caught off guard, to assume there’s always more time, to sleepwalk through the best years of our lives.

So how do we wake up? For me, this is where penance comes in—practices that break the routine, shake us free from autopilot. And it’s not about “earning” salvation or making ourselves miserable. It’s about reclaiming the power of longing, and noticing what we usually ignore.

 

When we fast—maybe from food, or maybe from that late-night Netflix habit, Facebook scrolling, even idle gossip—there’s this strange emptiness at first. For me, that emptiness is both uncomfortable and, oddly, hopeful. Hunger is a teacher. Silence is a teacher. They remind me how desperate I’ve become for noise, or mindless consumption, or numbing routines.

I’m discovering, again and again, that every time I push back against my own comfort—or distraction—what comes up first is restlessness. But stick with it, and sometimes I find myself actually praying from the heart, or even just being still long enough to hear what God’s been trying to tell me.

So, what would it mean for us, as a family of faith, to reclaim Advent as a season of waking up? I don’t think it’s about going back to midnight-to-Mass fasting, unless you feel truly called. But what if we made real, honest changes this year—ones that cost us just enough to make us pay attention?

Maybe, once a week, we fast from something that numbs us—our phones, streaming, online shopping, that extra drink or snack. Maybe we agree (as a family, as roommates, as friends) to put the screens down during meals, and actually talk to each other. Maybe we get up ten minutes early to pray—resisting the snooze button, yes, but also inviting God to fill that quiet. Maybe, instead of one more impulse buy, we set aside money for the food pantry or a friend in need.

None of these are punishments. They’re space-making. They’re little experiments in spiritual attention, with the hope that God will meet us in the emptiness.

Isaiah saw it in that first reading today —crowds climbing the mountain of the Lord, walking toward a future of peace and light. That mountain isn’t climbed by accident. It takes intention, even struggle, and a willingness to wake up to where God is actually leading us.

We all know life is heavy enough. It feels like so many of us are juggling work, family, school, friendships, responsibilities we never imagined. Some days, just making it through seems like a victory. God does not want to make life harder.  He wants to make us more alive—awake in love, awake in purpose, awake to the way Christ is showing up right now.

Because Christ really is coming. Not just in the “cute baby Jesus in a manger” way, not just in a Christmas story, but in glory, in mystery, in judgment, in joy. And Christ is coming now—in the Eucharist where we receive His Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity in that simple host, in our neighbor in need, in the moments of grace we miss when we’re tuned out by habit or anxiety. I know I’ve missed them more than I’d like to admit.

When we reclaim the practices of fasting, prayer, letting go of what distracts us—for Advent, none of these things makes God love us more. They make our hearts big enough, empty enough, to finally notice and receive the love He is already pouring out.

So let’s challenge ourselves this year, and let’s help each other do it. Let’s turn down the noise outside—and inside—just a bit. Let’s fast, let’s pray, let’s notice each other. Let’s start small, but let’s be bold.

Let’s not just count down the days to Christmas this year, or settle for just remembering Christ’s birth as something that happened long ago. Let’s be the people who dare to wake up and make space—for challenge and for joy, for each other, and for the Lord. Because when we use this Advent to stay alert, to climb higher, and to be truly ready, something changes. We won’t just retell an old story. We’ll meet Christ as He comes—again, and always, and maybe in ways we never expected.