Have you ever been handed one of those inspirational quote sheets—maybe during an icebreaker, a retreat, or a mandatory HR training—where someone proudly points out how every religion basically says the same thing? “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you”? Maybe you thought, Oh good. Maybe this whole religion thing isn’t as complicated—or as demanding—as it sometimes feels.  Maybe you even thought, “deep down, we’re all on the same team.”

I remember that feeling. When I first started working in campus ministry, there was a well-meaning movement on campus—especially among faculty and staff in the religious studies department. The goal was simple and appealing: focus on what all religions have in common. Build bridges. Emphasize shared values. Find the lowest common denominator so no one feels excluded.

Thank you for taking the time to read this homily for the SECOND SUNDAY IN ORDINARY TIME – January 18, 2026 – 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

And you could understand the motivation—especially on a campus like ours, one of the most religiously and culturally diverse in the country. I remember one afternoon, we gathered in a lecture hall. The presenter passed out one of those neatly printed sheets with parallel quotes: Jesus, Muhammad, the Buddha, Hindu sages, even ancient Egyptian texts—all lined up side by side, all saying some version of “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

That moment is still vivid. I watched faces light up—genuine amazement, almost relief—like they’d uncovered a long-lost secret. “See? Everyone basically believes the same thing.” “There’s more that unites than divides,” someone whispered. The presenter concluded confidently: “We’re all just taking different roads to the same destination.”

And at the time, I nodded. It felt generous. It felt enlightened. It felt…peaceful.

But if someone tried that exercise today, I’m not sure I could sit quietly and nod. Because while there is something good and noble about seeking unity—and yes, the Catholic Church especially since Vatican II has been clear: respect other faiths, recognize truth wherever it appears, never dismiss the sincere searching of the human heart—there is also a danger here. A serious one.

If we’re not careful, religion becomes a matter of taste. A lifestyle preference. You like McDonald’s, I like Burger King—same food, different branding. Pick what works for you. Customize your spirituality. Mix and match beliefs like items on a menu.

But faith—real faith—is not a preference.  It’s not vanilla versus chocolate.  It’s not aesthetic.  It’s not about what works for me.

Because something is actually at stake. Something eternal. Something that has consequences.

And today’s readings refuse to let us stay comfortable.

In the first reading, Isaiah speaks to a people who feel insignificant—defeated, forgotten, wondering if their story even matters anymore. And into that discouragement, God makes a staggering claim: “I will make you a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the ends of the earth.”

Not self-improvement.

Not wisdom.

Salvation.

Isaiah’s “servant” is deliberately mysterious—sometimes sounding like Israel itself, sometimes like a single individual—but the message is unmistakable: God is not interested in a private spirituality. God is acting on behalf of the whole world. History itself is being bent toward redemption.

Then we move to the riverbank in John’s Gospel. No stage lights. No incense. Just water, dust, and bodies standing in line. Suddenly John the Baptist looks up, sees Jesus walking toward him, and says something that should stop everyone cold:

“Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.”

          Not “sins.” Not a tally of individual mistakes. Sin, singular—cosmic. The deep fracture running through the history of humanity and through every single human heart.

And John does not say, “Here is a moral teacher.”  He does not say, “Here is a prophet with insight.”  He says, “Here is the Lamb.” Every Jewish ear would have snapped to attention. Because the lamb is not inspirational.  The lamb is slaughtered.  The lamb is not a symbol. The lamb is sacrifice.  Blood.  Death.  A life offered so something broken can be made right.

And then John dares to say what to this point is inconceivable: this Lamb takes away the sin of the world. Not just Israel’s failure. Not just my private guilt. The whole thing. Everything that has gone wrong between God and humanity.

This is where Christianity stops being comforting and starts being confrontational.

Because Jesus doesn’t come merely to affirm us. He comes to save us. And you only need saving if something is truly wrong.  It can be easy to keep all this talk about “the Lamb” and “salvation” at arm’s length—as if it’s just beautiful poetry, or some distant spiritual idea. But this is as real and urgent as life and death.

A friend of mine who is a firefighter and EMT with the FDNY once told me that his hardest calls weren’t necessarily the gruesome ones (which is kind of surprising at first, but firefighters have stronger constitutions and have seen and experienced a whole lot that they can get numb to that) The hardest calls, he said was when people were clearly injured—but refused to admit it. He described scenes where someone would say, “I’m fine. Don’t touch me. I just want to go home,” while bleeding, disoriented, barely standing.

One night, after a serious crash, a man kept pushing everyone away. My friend finally had to grab his shoulders, look him straight in the eye, and say: “Sir, you are not okay. If you don’t get help, you’re going to die.”  Scared straight, he finally relented, got on the stretcher, let them bring him to the hospital where indeed they saved his life.

That is what Jesus does. Not gently offering tips for living your best life. Not saying, “Just try harder.”  But stepping into the wreckage of humanity and saying, “You need help. And I am here to give it.”

That’s why reducing Christianity to advice misses the point entirely. If moral effort were enough, the cross would be obscene.  If self-improvement could fix us, Calvary would be unnecessary.  If we could save ourselves, Jesus would never need to become the Lamb.  But we can’t.   And that’s not bad news. That’s the best news you’ll ever hear. Because it means your worst failure does not have the final word.

It means your shame is not your identity.

It means you are not responsible for rescuing yourself.

The Lamb of God has come—to carry what you cannot, to heal what you cannot fix, to take away what you cannot escape.

Think about your own life. How many times have you said, “This time will be different”? How many resolutions, promises, quiet vows? How often do old patterns creep back in—resentment, addiction, fear, pride? And how exhausting is that cycle?

Jesus does not stand over you with a clipboard. He does not say, “Prove it.”  He says, “Come to me.”

Especially for us in this moment of time and history, 2026 in the United States – swimming in a culture that demands performance. Curated lives. Perfect images. Constant comparison. We live in a world where every moment can be posted, measured, judged. Where one mistake—one failure—feels like it can define you forever.

And faith easily becomes just another metric—another way to prove you’re good enough.  But Christianity is not about earning love.It’s about receiving mercy.  The Lamb of God steps into your real life—not the filtered version—and says, “I see you. I know you. And I have come for you.”

So what does this mean for us?

First: we can stop pretending. The Church is not a showroom for the flawless. It is a trauma ward. Honesty is not a liability here—it’s the price of admission.

Second: remember who you are. Your worth is not negotiable. Not your GPA. Not your résumé. Not your followers. You are claimed, forgiven, and loved.

Third: we don’t keep this to ourselves. Isaiah’s promise is now ours. We are sent—not to win arguments, but to be living proof that grace is real.

And finally: a choice stands before us.

Self-salvation—or surrender.  Control—or trust.  Pride—or mercy.

Picture this: you’re drowning, exhausted, lungs burning. A hand reaches out. You can thrash…or you can grab on.

Soon, you’ll hear those words again at this altar: “Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world.” Maybe you’ve noticed—right here at Mass, the wording is slightly different from John’s Gospel. John the Baptist points to Jesus and says, “the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world”—singular. But at Mass, we say, “the sins of the world”—plural.

That’s not an accident. It’s a window into the mystery we’re about to receive.

In Scripture, the singular “sin of the world” points to the great chasm, the cosmic fracture—all that separates humanity from God. Jesus, the Lamb, enters into that collective darkness and defeats it. His sacrifice is once-for-all, breaking the power of sin itself.

But here, in the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, the Church wants us to hear something else, too. “Sins,” plural. Not just the big, universal problem. But your sins. My sins. All the ways we fall short—individually, personally, daily. At this altar, Christ’s sacrifice meets us right where we are.

The Lamb of God comes not just for some abstract, global wound, but for the wounds you and I carry. He takes away the shame we thought we had to hide, the guilt we thought we’d never escape, those quiet regrets no one else knows about.

This subtle change in wording is the Church’s way of saying: Yes, Jesus came to conquer the power of sin for the whole world. But He also came for you. For your sins. For your freedom. For your healing.

So today, as you come forward and hear those words—“Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world”—don’t let them wash over you like background noise.

Hear them as a summons. Hear them as a claim on your life.  This isn’t just a ritual. This is the moment where heaven breaks into earth. Where the power that shattered sin and death reaches for you—personally, right now.

Bring your wounds. Bring your secrets. Bring the burdens you’ve carried for years, and the ones you picked up this week. Bring the sins you can’t forget, and the ones you wish no one would ever remember.

Let go of the lie that you have to save yourself.

You do not come to this altar for advice.

You come for salvation.

You come to meet the Lamb—slaughtered, risen, alive—stretching out His life for you.

Let His mercy shock you.

Let His love undo you.

Let the Lamb do what only He can do.

And when you leave this place, leave different.

Leave lighter.    Leave free.

Because you have met not advice, but salvation.

You have met the Lamb of God.