Readings: Acts 14:21-27 / Rev 21:1-5 / Jn 13:31-35
A young man went to an old monk in the desert and said, “Abba, you are wise, and everyone says you are a saint. Tell me, how can I keep myself pure and spotless before God?”
The elder replied, “My son, do not trust in your own righteousness. Forget the past. Control your tongue and your stomach. Love your brothers. And never take a man for your example, however holy he may be, for the devil will show you his faults.”
That night, the young monk stayed for supper.
The old monk drank too much wine and sang loudly, off-key.
So the young man was scandalized and went to bed in despair.
When he woke up in the morning, the elder was already sweeping the floor and singing psalms.
The young man went up to him and said, “Abba, last night you made a fool of yourself. How can I follow your example when you are a sinner just like me?”
The old monk said, “You can start by loving the fool you saw last night.”
That’s the hard part, isn’t it?
Not loving holy people we can admire at a distance, but loving the people who disappoint us—the ones who are weak, sinful, embarrassing.
And maybe even harder: loving ourselves when we realize we’re no better than them.
Today’s Gospel meets us right there, in the ache of betrayal and failure.
Judas has just gone out to hand Jesus over to his enemies.
Peter’s denial is only hours away.
One turns his back completely; the other will falter out of fear.
But in between these two betrayals, Jesus says, “Now”—not later, not after the Resurrection, but now—“Now is the Son of Man glorified.”
What does he mean?
To be “glorified” literally means to be seen in the right light.
The Greek word means “reputation,” being known for who you truly are.
And Jesus is never more himself than when he gives himself away.
In this moment, at the Last Supper, surrounded by human weakness and treachery, He reveals God’s glory.
Because this is what God is really like: steady, faithful, giving everything, even when His love is not returned.
And so, Jesus, glorified as He gives Himself away into the hands of weak and sinful men, in the midst of their betrayals, gives us a new commandment: “Love one another, as I have loved you.”
It’s not just another rule. It’s a gift.
It’s the signpost that points to a whole new way of living—a life not built on rivalry or fear, or comparisons or self-protection, but a life built on the solid ground of knowing you are loved.
Jesus loved Judas, knowing he would betray him.
He loved Peter, knowing he would deny him.
He loves us, knowing our every weakness.
And once we really know what it’s like to be loved by Jesus, then we don’t need to prove ourselves anymore/
We don’t need to win. We don’t need to compare.
We are free to give ourselves away.
That’s the love we’re called to offer one another.
Not a love that waits for people to deserve it…
Not a love that retreats when things get hard…
A love that endures all things, even to the Cross.
We hear Jesus say in the second reading, “Behold, I make all things new.”
That newness begins now, every time we forgive instead of retaliating; every time we bear with one another in love; every time we choose to be generous, even when it’s hard.
That’s when the kingdom touches down.
That’s when the holy city descends.
And Jesus says, “By this everyone will know you are my disciples: if you have love for one another.”
Not by our perfect arguments, not by our spotless purity, but by our love—especially when it costs.
When we choose to stay. When we give. When we love as He loved.
And where does this kind of love come from?
We know it doesn’t come from ourselves.
No, it comes from here—from the altar, from the One who still gives himself away to His friends in this Eucharist.
He feeds us with the very love He commands us to share.
He makes it possible.
He makes us new.
So brothers and sisters, let’s start living like we’re loved.
Let’s love like He loves us.
And let’s stop waiting for each another to be worthy of love before we offer it.
Because the Kingdom of God isn’t built by perfect people.
It’s built by sinners, who wake up in the morning, sweep the floor, sing the psalms, and try again.
Always, now and ever, and unto the ages of ages. Amen.
I LOVE this homily and the story at the start. I relate to it on so many levels. Like the elder, or worse, I should say, I don't have to drink anything to get loud and obnoxious (and I still struggle controlling my tongue and my stomach).
Like the young person, when I was much younger, I once had what I guess you'd call a certain amount of spiritual pride. It's taken my entire life to realize I'm still so childish.
And I need to hear it over and over again - I.am.loved. And every morning when I wake up, I can sing His praises - while sweeping, of course - and try again.
Thank you I needed to hear this. Perfect timing 🩷🙏🏻