priest.

Proclaiming the Gospel is more than speaking aloud. It’s about showing up, revealing what’s deepest in us, what we’ve come to know as true. Sometimes that truth is spoken in a homily. At other times, it arrives in a story, a silence, a gesture, or a shared breath. For me, proclamation happens wherever love becomes presence, and presence becomes invitation. It’s where the message isn’t just heard, it’s felt.

To remain is to stay, not only when it’s easy, but especially when it’s hard. When the questions are too big for answers. When the pain is fresh. When silence lingers. I try to stay there because Christ does. “Remain in me, as I remain in you” (John 15:4) is not just a comfort, but a call. I believe we’re meant to remain with one another in the same way: not to fix, not to rush, but to hold space for what is real.

Presence doesn’t always speak. Sometimes, it simply stays.

I’ve met too many people who’ve been told they don’t belong in the Church; told they’re too much, not enough, too different, too broken. But Jesus said otherwise. He called Zacchaeus down from the tree and said, “I’m coming to your house today” (Luke 19:1-10). He spoke with the Samaritan woman at the well and offered her living water, not judgment (John 4: 4-42). Again and again, he sat with the excluded (Matthew 9:10-13), touched the untouchable (Mark 1:40-42), and called beloved those the world had cast aside (Luke 7:36-50). He didn’t just preach inclusion; he lived it. I want to echo that welcome, to create spaces of healing and home, especially for those who’ve been overlooked or pushed out. Because they belong. They always have.

A priest’s first calling is to pray. Before I preach, act, or speak, I pray. Not out of obligation, but like breathing. Prayer is how I live with God. Jesus prayed in gardens (Luke 22:39-46) and on crosses (Matthew 27:46), with gratitude (John 11:41-42) and anguish (Mark 14:33-36), for friends (John 17:9-26) and enemies (Luke 23:34) alike. It was his lifeline, his language of love. I return to prayer daily — sometimes with a rosary, sometimes with a journal, or music, or hands open — to listen, to be reshaped. Prayer doesn’t just prepare me for ministry. It is the ministry.

We’re not just made to belong. We’re made to be sent. When Jesus said to Peter, “Feed my lambs… Tend my sheep… Feed my sheep” (John 21:15-17), he wasn’t handing over a burden; he was offering trust. For us, the Spirit has already been breathed. The call has already begun. I believe God is always at work within us, often quietly.

Empowerment, for me, is the art of noticing. Of naming what’s already growing. Of helping someone believe that their “yes” matters. To be sent is not something we earn. It’s something we awaken to.

The Eucharist isn’t just something we receive at the altar, it’s a way of life. To live Eucharistically is to follow Christ’s example: to be blessed, broken, and given. It means letting love move us beyond ourselves, offering our lives with humility, selflessness, and grace, just as he did. Each time I lift the Host and say, “This is my body,” I hear a call not just to worship, but to live those words. The Eucharist forms us into people who become what we receive: Christ’s love, poured out for the life of the world.

Hope isn’t optimism, it’s sacred resistance. It’s how we stand firm when the world tries to shake us. Rooted in Christ, hope fuels action, restores dignity, and grounds our pursuit of justice. Jesus lived this hope, confronting injustice (Matthew 23), walking with the wounded (Luke 8:43-48), loving the forgotten (Luke 5:12-16). His resurrection is our courage. Because he lives, we go on.

To hope is to resist. To hope together is to be Church.

The Gospel isn’t just proclaimed, it’s lived. To embody it means letting the life and love of Jesus shape how we show up in the world. It’s more than belief; it’s allowing Christ’s compassion, courage, and mercy to take root in how we speak, create, forgive, and serve, following his way of love, justice, and welcome.

I fall short all the time. But I keep showing up. I begin again. I trust that grace meets me in the attempt. That’s what I’m striving for: a life shaped by love, rooted in Christ, and open to others, even when it’s messy, even when it’s hard, with love at the center.