Every generation believes the next one has it easier. It’s a thought I grew up hearing—especially from my grandfather. When I was a kid, he’d catch my brothers and me planted in front of the living room TV playing what we thought was the greatest thing ever—the Atari—and just shake his head: “You kids don’t know hardship.” We’d roll our eyes. But now, I get it.

His generation faced the Great Depression and two world wars, living in homes where you counted yourself lucky if the heat worked or the roof didn’t leak. My parents were the first to have washing machines; cars in their driveways – black-and-white TV. I remember when the cable box arrived, boosting our channels from 10 to 30, and the magic (and frustration) of sending emails with dial-up internet—minutes of hissing before you could say “hello.” Now my nieces FaceTime from their bedrooms to Paris, stream any movie on their phones, order food without speaking to anyone, and wonder how we ever managed to wait for a ride in the rain. Every generation thinks the next one has it easier—and spiritually, that might be true, too.

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

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 when our busy lives are even busier 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 hit like a thunderclap: “It is the hour now for you to awake from sleep.” Not tomorrow, not after the holidays, not when exams are over, not when life “settles down.” Now. Not some distant future moment, but this exact moment, right here, right now.

Paul knew exactly what makes us sleepwalk through life—the comforts and distractions that numb our souls. The wild parties and jealousies of his day sound oddly familiar when you replace Roman banquets with bottomless brunches, and the gossip of a bygone era with doomscrolling till the early morning. We binge on distractions, chasing every shiny thing, numbing ourselves so much that we don’t feel the hunger for God or authentic love anymore.

This isn’t about being perfect or ticking religious boxes. It’s about waking up. Choosing to turn the noise down so we can hear that still, small voice. Because too much comfort, too much stimulation—too much of anything—deadens us. Deadens us to love, to God, to the needs right in front of us.

Advent calls us back. It’s not just about remembering a baby born in Bethlehem. It’s the promise God keeps—that Christ is coming again, and coming into our lives right now. And if we sleep through it, we’ll miss Him entirely.

Jesus reminds us in today’s Gospel: look at the flood in Noah’s time. People weren’t caught off guard because they were immoral; they were caught off guard because they were asleep—living ordinary lives, oblivious to the bigger story unfolding around them. It’s a haunting mirror to our own distracted lives.

So how do we wake up? For me, this is the power of penance—not punishment, but invitation. Practices that break our autopilot, that make us long and notice again what we often ignore.

When we fast, maybe from food or from the endless scrolling and distractions, we feel an emptiness that’s uncomfortable—and strangely hopeful. Hunger is a teacher. Silence is a teacher. They reveal how thirsty we’ve become for something deeper than noise and numbing habits.

Every time I push against my comfort zone, that restless discomfort comes first. But if I stick with it, sometimes I find genuine prayer. Sometimes God’s voice breaks through the clamoring silence.

What if, as a faith family, we reclaimed Advent as a season of waking up? Not necessarily fasting from midnight to Mass—unless you feel deeply called—but real, honest changes that cost just enough to catch our attention.

Maybe once a week, we fast from something that numbs us—our phones, streaming, online shopping, that extra drink or snack. Maybe we carve out screen-free mealtime to really talk. Maybe we set alarms ten minutes earlier to pray, resisting snooze not just to wake our bodies but our spirits. Maybe we set aside one impulsive purchase a week and give that money to someone in need.

None of this is punishment; it’s space-making. It’s little spiritual experiments with the hope that God can meet us in the quiet and emptiness.

Isaiah paints a beautiful picture in today’s first reading—crowds climbing the mountain of the Lord, walking toward peace and light. Mountains aren’t climbed by accident. They take intention. Struggle. And that willingness to wake up to where God is leading.

We know life is already hard. Many of us are juggling work, family, school, relationships, responsibilities. Some days, just getting through feels like a victory. But God doesn’t want to make life harder. He wants to make us more alive—awake in love, purpose, and presence to where Christ meets us.

Because Christ is coming—not just as the baby in the manger, but in glory, mystery, judgment, and joy. He is coming now—in the Eucharist where we receive His very Body and Blood in that simple host, in our neighbor’s face, in the small gifts of grace we miss when we’re distracted. I know I’ve missed more of them than I’d like to admit.

When we reclaim the practices of fasting, prayer, and noticing what distracts us, none of it makes God love us more. Rather, it makes our hearts big enough, empty enough to finally receive that love He has been pouring out all along.

So, let’s challenge ourselves—and each other. Let’s turn the noise down just a bit—outside, and inside. Let’s fast, pray, notice, and grow awake. Start small, but let’s be bold.

Let’s not just count down the days to Christmas, or settle for remembering Christ’s birth as something that happened long ago. Let’s be the people who dare to wake up, make space—for challenge, joy, each other, and 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, always, and perhaps in ways we never expected.