A couple of weeks ago, a story about a man named Ed Bambas started circling the internet—and then somehow circled the globe. Ed is 88 years old. That’s a number that means something when you see it written, but it means even more when you picture it:   Eighty-eight years. That’s 88 Michigan winters survived. Eighty-eight Advents. Eighty-eight years of mornings where he got up and did what needed to be done, even when it wasn’t glamorous or exciting. Eighty-eight years of dreams reached and dreams lost; decades of memories, aches, joys, disappointments—all tucked behind the eyes of a quiet man you’d barely notice in the checkout line at a supermarket.

Thank you for taking the time to read this homily for the THIRD SUNDAY OF ADVENT (December 14, 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

Ed lived the kind of life we like to tell young people still exists: He served in the Army, came home, married his best friend Joan, worked hard at General Motors, and trusted that doing the right thing would pay off. He put in the years. He planned for the future. He believed, as many of our parents and grandparents did, that if you just kept your head down and worked with integrity, things would be okay.

But life doesn’t always return the favor.

When GM collapsed in 2012, Ed’s pension disappeared. His health insurance went with it. Years later, Joan grew seriously ill. And suddenly Ed found himself in a nightmare none of us ever imagine at 30, or 50, or 70—that everything you spent a lifetime building could evaporate, and you could be left starting over when most people your age are slowing down.

He did what any loving husband would do. He sold the house. He drained the savings. He paid for her care. He stayed at her side. He buried her. And then, because the bills didn’t go away when the grief came, he put on a fresh uniform and went back to work. First at Ace Hardware. Then at Meijer. Not because he wanted to. Not because he had a grand plan. But because it was what love required.

Quiet, faithful sacrifice—no spotlight, no applause. When someone finally noticed and asked him why he kept going, he said, “It wasn’t hard for me because I knew I had to do it. I’m fortunate God gave me a good enough body to stand.”

That line floors me. God gave me a good enough body to stand. How many of us complain about having to stand in line for eighteen minutes at Shop Rite?

Ed’s story sounds like what usually becomes a quiet tragedy: hard life, faithful suffering, no miracle.

But this time, the story didn’t fade.

Half a world away, in Australia, a young guy named Samuel Weidenhofer—basically a “kindness influencer”—saw the video. Yes, that’s a thing now; influencers don’t just sell makeup and protein powder. Some of them try to make the world less bleak.  Samuel started by handing out hugs, flowers, small bits of hope in public places. It weirdly took off. By 2024, he had a massive following—people who loved seeing kindness, who believed that maybe goodness could be contagious.

He went to Michigan, tracked Ed down, spoke with him and got him to open up, and then shared Ed’s story, unsure what would happen. Maybe a few people would help. Maybe Ed could cover a bill or two.

Instead, something pretty spectacular happened.

People across the world gave what they could: five dollars, ten dollars, fifty. Students. Families. Grandparents. Teenagers. People who had little gave a little. People who had more gave more. And all of it snowballed until this past week when Samuel had to call Ed and tell him the number:

Two. Million. Dollars.

Think about that—two million dollars raised by strangers who will never meet him. Enough not only to cover his debts, but to restore dignity. To restore security. Enough that Ed doesn’t have to stand at a checkout line until he’s 90. Enough that Ed could breathe easier, feel seen—feel known. Enough, finally, for rest.

It was as if God said, “Ed, you spent years asking me for enough strength to get through your shift. Today I’m answering—not with ‘enough,’ but with abundance.”

An answer he never expected, in a form he never imagined.

But what stayed with me in Ed’s story wasn’t so much the amazing news, the avalanche of money, the generosity of so many strangers, as beautiful and heartwarming as that was  — instead it was something else… it was the long stretch before that “miracle” arrived, the years when life wasn’t turning out the way he thought it would. When he kept showing up, doing what was right, carrying more weight than anyone knew.

And underneath all of that—whether he ever said it out loud—there had to be that quiet, aching question so many of us eventually ask:

“God… where are You in all this? Did I misunderstand how this was supposed to go?”  In fact that was my first reaction to the story – I’m so glad things worked out for him, but it should never have happened in the first place. Maybe you’ve felt that, too: grateful for the miracle, but unsettled by the suffering that came first.

And that question—that tension between faith and frustration—is exactly where we find John the Baptist in today’s Gospel.

A man who gave God everything, who believed he knew what the Messiah would do, and now finds himself in a prison cell asking Jesus the most human, most honest question:

“Are You the One… or did I get this wrong?”

John—the boldest prophet in Israel—now feels unsure. The man who pointed to Jesus with absolute certainty now finds himself in a place he never expected, asking a question he never thought he’d have to ask.

In response, though, Jesus doesn’t say, “John, how dare you doubt me?”

He doesn’t say, “Come on, John, pull it together.”

He doesn’t shame or dismiss him.

He answers with evidence of hope:

“The blind see. The lame walk.  Lepers are cleansed.  The deaf hear. The dead are raised. The poor receive good news.”

In other words:  John… the Kingdom is coming. Even if you can’t see it from your cell, it’s happening.

 

Then Jesus does something astonishing: He praises the one who doubts. “Among those born of women, there has been none greater than John.”

John’s greatness isn’t that he never doubted.
It’s that he stayed faithful in the doubt.
He stayed open.
He kept seeking.
He kept sending messengers to Jesus.

That is faith—not certainty, but perseverance.

And maybe that’s why the Church gives us Gaudete Sunday – Gaudete latin for “Let us rejoice”  right here—in the middle of the waiting. Not when the Christmas lights are on and everything’s cozy. Not when all the prayers are answered. But right here, when we’re still in the grey zone, the “not-yet,” the part of life where the questions feel louder than the answers.  Right here, mid the cold of winter, mid-waiting, when hope feels like a risk.

That’s when the rose candle is lit.
That’s when the priest shows up wearing a color that looks like holy Pepto-Bismol.
That’s when the Church dares to say:
Rejoice anyway.
Rejoice now.
Rejoice in the middle.

Not because everything is fixed.
But because God is already moving.

 

Isaiah promises:

The desert will bloom.
The feeble will be strengthened.
The exiles will come home singing.
Joy is coming.

But the command is to start rejoicing before it arrives.

And maybe this is a reminder all of us need right now, in the middle of the “not-yet.”

 

Some of you walked in today carrying things you haven’t told anyone.
Some of you walked in here with stress burning a hole in your chest.
Some of you are deeply anxious about the future.
Some of you are waiting for answers—about relationships, jobs, health, purpose.
Some of you are wondering if your prayers are bouncing off the ceiling.
Some of you are fighting depression or loneliness or fear
Some of you feel like Ed: doing everything right, carrying burdens quietly and still wondering how it all fell apart.
Some of you feel like John: stuck, doubting, praying behind the bars of circumstances you didn’t choose, disappointed, wondering if God sees you.

And some of you—no judgment—are barely holding on. Showing up to Mass because something inside of you whispers, “Don’t give up yet,” even when your faith feels like a last thread, it’s enough.

And Gaudete Sunday whispers:
Your joy doesn’t have to wait for perfect conditions.
Start practicing it now.
Start trusting now.
Start hoping now.
Start thanking God now.
Not because the miracle has arrived—but because it’s already in motion.

Which brings us back to Ed. His story shows us something crucial: God often answers through community. He answers through strangers. Through generosity. Through someone who decides to stop scrolling and start caring.
People became the miracle.
Ordinary people.
Young people.
People who gave $5.
People who believed that someone else’s life mattered.

God still works that way.

Imagine if each of us decided to be 5% more attentive to someone else this Advent.   Imagine the deserts that would start blooming.

 

So here’s the invitation today:
Light the rose candle—in your home, in your heart.
Rejoice before the answers.
Sing before the solution.
Hope before the door opens.
Trust before the healing.
Believe before the evidence appears.

Because God is nearer than your fear. Your doubts don’t disqualify you. Your waiting isn’t wasted. The God who strengthened John, who surprised Ed, who turned strangers into a miracle—He hasn’t forgotten you. Not now, not ever.

Gaudete.
Rejoice.

Because somewhere in the not-yet, God is already crafting a miracle bigger than anything you can imagine. And your story’s not over yet.