Today, I want to share with you not just a message, but a story. It’s a story that could belong to any of us. It’s the story of James, a husband and father of three whose life was upended just days before Christmas. For sixteen years, James worked at a factory, building a future for his family. Two days before what should have been a season of joy, his company announced layoffs. Just like that, he was out of a job, his last paycheck barely enough to cover the rent. He watched the lights go up in his neighbors’ windows and heard families sing and celebrate, but instead felt the heavy shroud of anxiety and sadness descend on his home.
Waiting in the Dark: When Advent Feels Heavy Instead of Hopeful
James tried to stay brave for his wife, Amy, and their children: twelve-year-old Allie, who grew serious and careful almost overnight; eight-year-old Ben, still stubborn enough to believe in Christmas magic; and little Sophie, who just wanted her father to smile. But at night, James would lie awake, staring into the darkness, wondering how to say there would be no gifts, not even a tree. He felt a different kind of emptiness, a pressure he’d never known before, questioning not just his future but God’s presence.
As Advent unfolds before us, we’re handed an invitation—not just to more lists, more shopping, or more frantic hustle, but to something riskier and far more honest. Let’s take a glimpse at someone in our own midst—a woman like Samantha, perhaps someone you know, perhaps someone a little like you.
Every year, Samantha mapped out her perfect Christmas with military precision: menus, presents, decorations, endless lists promising a season that would finally feel right. And every year, as she sat among the torn wrapping paper and cold leftovers, a hollow ache settled in. “Hollowed out by the holidays,” she joked. But beneath that joke—loneliness, disappointment, a hunger for something real.
Today I want to share with you the story of my best friend, Mark—a man who, like many of us, always considered himself a person of faith. Mark was faithful to Mass, devoted to service, and kept his rosary close by. Then came that dreadful day: his company downsized, and he lost his job. Suddenly, his world was turned upside down.
Job hunting became his entire focus. Mark poured over online applications, crafted cover letters, hustled every hour of the day, skipping meals, and convincing himself that Sundays were too precious to spend at church. “I’ll pray later,” he thought. “Right now, I have to work.” Sound familiar? Life’s uncertain moments can shake us, and when our routine is upended, it’s all too easy to assume we’ll come back to God—once life is less complicated.
But weeks of rejection wore Mark down. His faith felt distant; his hope, almost gone. It took a caring friend from church to reach out, listen, and gently remind Mark that we need God most when we feel out of control—not because God will solve our troubles instantly, but because He promises to walk with us through them. Jesus calls us to “stay awake”—not to let worry, fear, or busyness blanket our faith.
That very night, Mark picked up his rosary, dusted off his prayer life, and asked not for a job, but for peace. The next day he went back to Mass. Being there, he noticed something different—something softer and clearer in the choir’s song, something opening up inside himself. In the weeks that followed, Mark rebuilt his rhythm of prayer, reconnected with his community, and felt his anxiety begin to loosen its grip.
A new job eventually came, through a connection he made at church—one he’d have missed if he’d stayed isolated. But looking back, Mark realized that the real transformation wasn’t finding work. It was learning to stay awake to God’s presence, preparing his heart for Jesus’ arrival in ways he’d almost overlooked. And it made all the difference.
Every year, right as the Thanksgiving dishes are being crammed into leftover containers and Advent candles begin their annual migration to the dining-room table, the Church gives us a quiet but bold voice to start the new liturgical year: Saint Andrew the Apostle.
He doesn’t get the big headlines his brother Simon Peter receives. There’s no “Keys of Andrew.” No massive dome in Rome carrying his name. No moment where Jesus calls him “the Rock.”
But in the Gospels, Andrew has something Peter doesn’t: He’s first.
The Protocletos (“First-Called”), the one who heard John the Baptist say, “Behold, the Lamb of God!” and responded immediately. The apostle who didn’t wait for perfect circumstances or a theological degree before bringing someone to Jesus. He simply encountered Christ then ran to get his brother.
In other words, Andrew is the patron saint of every ordinary Catholic who has ever whispered, “You’ve got to meet Jesus,” to a friend, a child, a spouse, or a stranger. His whole life models evangelization and discipleship, not the polished programmatic kind but the relational “follow me and bring your brother too” kind.
Domenico Ghirlandaio, “Calling of the First Apostles,” 1481 (photo: Public Domain)
The First Steps of a Disciple: Encounter, Then Invitation
Andrew’s story begins on the sandy shores of Galilee, where he and Simon Peter worked as fishermen. When he wasn’t mending nets, he was following John the Baptist and searching for the Messiah with a heart that wasn’t content to sit still.
That restlessness is part of why I love Andrew. He is the saint for all of us who are trying to find God while folding laundry or reminding kids that “bedtime” actually means going to bed. Andrew shows us that the desire for God is already a grace, and when God meets that desire, we move.
So when the Baptist pointed out Jesus, Andrew and another disciple (likely John the Evangelist) followed Him. Jesus turned, saw them walking behind Him, and asked the question that echoes into every restless human heart:
“What are you looking for?”
Andrew doesn’t respond with a theological statement. He simply asks, “Where are you staying?”
Translation: Can we be with You?
This is the heart of discipleship: desire → encounter → relationship.
And from that relationship comes Andrew’s defining moment:
“He first found his brother Simon and said to him, ‘We have found the Messiah.’ And he brought him to Jesus.” (John 1:41–42)
Andrew is the Church’s first evangelist. Not because he had a platform, but because he had a brother. Evangelization begins at home, around kitchen tables and school desks and daily routines.
If there’s a lesson here, it’s this: Don’t underestimate what God wants to do through your simple invitation.
Apostle of Practical Faith: Andrew the Realist
The Gospels give us small windows into Andrew’s personality, and together they paint a beautiful picture.
During the feeding of the five thousand, Andrew notices the boy with the five loaves and two fish. He points him out to Jesus with honest realism: “There is a boy here who has five barley loaves and two fish, but what are they among so many?”
Andrew sees the need, sees the limited resources, and sees the gap. Yet he still brings the offering to Jesus. He trusts that Christ can work with little.
Every parent, teacher, catechist, or exhausted Catholic praying the Saint Andrew Novena for the fifteenth time that day knows this feeling. We look at our world and want to say, “Lord, here is what I’ve got. It’s not much.”
Andrew replies: Bring it anyway. Christ multiplies.
Later, when a group of Greeks wants to meet Jesus, they approach Philip, who brings the request to Andrew. Andrew, true to form, brings them to Christ.
Jew or Greek, brother or stranger, child with a lunch basket or adult with big questions, Andrew’s instinct is always the same: Bring people to Jesus.
This is the essence of discipleship. Not complicated strategies, but the consistent habit of placing people in the presence of Christ.
From Nets to Nations: Andrew the Missionary
After Pentecost, tradition says Andrew evangelized throughout the Greek-speaking world: Cappadocia, Bithynia, Pontus, Thrace, and finally Achaia. He traveled far from home, preaching Christ to those who had never heard the Gospel.
One early Christian tradition claims he appointed Stachys as the first bishop of Byzantium (later Constantinople), symbolically linking him with the Greek East just as Peter is linked with Rome and the West. This “Apostolic brotherhood” has become an image of ecumenical hope, often invoked by Popes Benedict XVI and Francis when praying for unity between the Catholic and Orthodox Churches.
Andrew’s martyrdom continues this theme of humble discipleship. Tradition says he was bound, not nailed, to an X-shaped cross to prolong his witness. For two days he preached Christ from the cross. One ancient text records his stunning words:
“Hail, O Cross, adorned with the limbs of Christ. Before the Lord mounted you, you inspired fear. Now, filled with heavenly love, I come to you willingly.”
That is the heart of a disciple. Someone who sees the Cross not as an end, but as a doorway into the love of God.
Detail from “The Crucifixion of Saint Andrew” (1651) by Mattia Preti [WikiArt.org]
Living Andrew’s Legacy Today: Evangelization Begins with One Invitation
Saint Andrew’s feast opens the door into Advent, a season that invites us to seek, invite, and prepare a place for Christ in our daily lives.
Last year, I introduced the Saint Andrew Christmas Novena to my family. We taped little printouts around the house to remind ourselves to pray. This year, I’m bringing it into my classroom too. It feels fitting. Andrew reminds us that discipleship thrives in simple, daily invitations.
The Church even has a modern practice inspired by his example: Project Andrew, where young men gather with priests to talk about vocation through relationship and conversation, not pressure. It mirrors Andrew’s original instinct to say, “Come and see.”
Your “brother” might be an actual sibling, a child, a spouse, a coworker, or a neighbor. It might be the person who always seems alone at Mass. Whoever it is, Andrew teaches us that evangelization is usually personal, simple, and rooted in love.
He was the first to follow Christ. But more importantly, he was the first to bring someone with him.
May we do the same.
Saint Andrew, First-Called Apostle and faithful evangelizer, pray for us.
Today’s Gospel from Luke 23 draws us into one of the most astounding moments in Scripture: the crucifixion, where Jesus, suffering and mocked, reveals the true nature of His kingship. Let me share a story from a Catholic prison chaplain, Father Mark, whose ministry on death row embodies the transforming hope of this Gospel.
Father Mark visited men living with regret, some convinced they were beyond God’s forgiveness. One man, John, had always refused to see a priest, insisting he was too far gone. As his last days approached, John finally asked to talk, not about his crime, but about the smallest hope that God might still care for him. During their meeting, John quietly asked, “Could God really remember me?”
Father Mark turned to today’s Gospel and told him of the Good Thief—Dismas—who, nailed beside Jesus and condemned, found the courage to say, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” Jesus, in turn, offered pure grace: “Today you will be with me in Paradise.” On the day of John’s execution, Father Mark repeated those words as he gave the last rites. In that moment, the Kingdom of God shone through, a kingdom of unearned hope and mercy, even behind prison walls.
As we sit together today in prayer, let us acknowledge our Lord Jesus’ presence among us. And, before anything else, remember this: Jesus loves each of us more deeply than we can ever imagine. No matter where we are or what we face, He is always with us and never distant, never leaving us to face life’s storms alone.
Today’s Gospel is enough to make anyone uneasy. Jesus stands before the glorious temple in Jerusalem—the heart of faith, the symbol of God’s presence—and shocks everyone by saying, “All that you see here—every stone—will be thrown down.” The people are stunned. They want details: they want a timeline, a way to prepare, a set of steps to avoid catastrophe.
And Jesus tells them, honestly, you can’t avoid troubles of the world. There will be wars, disasters, betrayals. Even the things you most treasure and trust: family, friendships, even the beauty and security of your religious traditions—sometimes even these will fall away. But then, right in the middle of all these warnings, he says, “Do not be terrified… Not a hair on your head will be destroyed. By your perseverance you will secure your lives.”
Today’s Gospel is dramatic. We see Jesus as we don’t often see Him—angry, passionate, driving out money-changers and cattle from the Temple. His voice echoes: “Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace!” You can almost feel the whip in His hand, the clatter of coins, the shocked faces. At first glance, it seems harsh. But as with everything Jesus does, there’s something deeper.
What was so wrong with selling animals and changing money? The merchants were, in a practical sense, helping people fulfill their religious duties. Yet Jesus knew the difference between help and hindrance. He saw clutter—spiritual distractions and noise—taking over what was meant to be sacred space. The Temple, God’s holy dwelling, had become just another market.
But listen again to Jesus’ words—He pointed to something even greater: “Destroy this Temple, and in three days I will raise it up.” The people thought He was talking about the stone building, but He meant His own Body. He was saying that God’s real dwelling place was no longer a place, but a Person. In Christ, heaven and earth meet.
