Fr. Brian Soliven Sermons

It is a striking fact, though often overlooked, that from the earliest days of the Church, the Virgin Mary was not merely honoured as the Mother of our Lord, but held up as the model of Christian faith itself.

This wasn’t because early Christians confused her with Christ, or wished to place her above Him. Rather, they saw in her something the modern world too often misses: a life fully and freely surrendered to God. Before she carried Christ in her womb, she had already welcomed Him in her heart.

When the angel Gabriel came to her, he did not offer a polite suggestion. He declared a divine reality: “You will conceive and bear a son.” No theological debate, no careful exposition, only a moment of decision. And Mary’s response—“Be it unto me according to thy word”—was more than agreement. It was the first, purest act of discipleship in all of Christian history. From that moment, the Church understood something profound: Mary is not the exception to the Christian life; she is its pattern.

Long before St. Peter dropped his nets or St. Paul fell from his horse, Mary had already said yes to God. She believed when belief came at a cost. She trusted when she did not understand. She obeyed when the path was unclear. And when all others had fled the cross, she remained.

This is why the earliest Christians honoured her—not as a goddess, not as a distant symbol, but as the first and truest disciple. They called her Theotokos, “God-bearer,” not to exalt her above Christ, but to defend the truth of the Incarnation: that God truly became man, and did so through the willing obedience of a human being.

Mary shows us what it looks like when humanity is fully open to God. Not proud. Not self-sufficient. Not scrambling to control. But open. Receptive. Willing. We are not called to be her, but we are called to follow her. And most of us, it must be said, are not likely to become apostles, prophets, or martyrs. But we are all called to do what she did: to listen for the voice of God—and to respond, not with delay or demands, but with faith.

If the Fall began with Eve’s “no,” then redemption begins with Mary’s “yes.” In that yes, history turned, Heaven touched Earth, and the Word became flesh. She did not work miracles. She did not preach sermons. She simply gave herself to God—and in doing so, gave the world its Saviour. Her faith was quiet, but unshakable. Hidden, but world-changing. And if we have eyes to see it, her life offers us not a relic to revere, but a path to walk.

There is a peculiar thing about belief. We often imagine it must be lit with the fire of visions, thunderous voices, and the trembling of mountains. We tend to seek the spectacular, the sensational. Yet heaven, if I may be so bold, is rather quieter than we imagine.

Now, there once was a mother, a girl, really, whose name the angels knew long before the world did: Mary. Her story is told with such tenderness and simplicity that we hardly notice the grandeur hidden within it. When the angel came to her, she was not in a temple nor upon a mountaintop, but in the quiet of her home. No crowd stood by to marvel; no thunder clapped. And yet, she believed.

Not because she saw a host of miracles. Not because she walked on water or watched water turn to wine. She believed long before those things. Before her Son had spoken a single parable or stilled a single storm. She believed while He was still small and helpless in her arms.

There is a story—one our Lord Himself told—of a rich man and a beggar named Lazarus. The rich man, finding himself in torment after death, pleads for Abraham to send someone—anyone!—from the dead to warn his brothers. “If only they see someone rise from the dead,” he says, “then surely they will believe.”

But Abraham replies, “If they do not listen to Moses and the Prophets, they will not be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.” And is this not the very world we live in now? The tomb is empty, and yet men still scoff. The stone was rolled away, and yet hearts remain sealed. Christ has risen, and still many say, “Show us a sign!”

But Mary did not ask for a sign. She did not demand proof. She treasured things in her heart long before they were proven. Her belief was not built on spectacle, but on surrender. She did not need her Son to rise from the dead to know who He was. She knew in the swaddling clothes what others could not see even after the Resurrection. This is the paradox of faith: those who insist upon signs may never see them, and those who see without insisting are often the ones who find them.

So then, you who wait for God to tear open the sky—consider Mary. The quiet girl of Nazareth. She who said yes before the miracles. She who knelt beneath the cross cradling the lifeless tortured corpse of her beloved boy, without understanding it. She believed, not because she saw, but because she knew. And that kind of knowing—quiet, patient, and undemanding—is to be faithful like Mary. 

When one reads the ancient words of Isaiah, particularly the thirty-fifth chapter, one finds not merely poetry, but promise:  "Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped..." What are these but signposts, pointing beyond themselves to a reality yet to come? And when Christ walked among us — healing the blind, the lame, the deaf — He did not merely perform wonders; He fulfilled prophecy, wove the threads of Israel’s hope into the fabric of His own person. These miracles were not parlor tricks, but the very evidence that the Kingdom of God had drawn near, that joy was beginning to bloom in the wilderness. In Jesus, Isaiah’s vision stood upright and walked among us.

“No servant can serve two masters.” It is not merely a command—it is a diagnosis. Christ is not giving us a rule to follow; He is telling us something about the way we are made. The human heart, like a compass, cannot point in two directions at once. Try to serve both God and “mammon” (worldly power, riches, fancy cars and houses, think of the things drug cartels worship), and you will soon discover that your soul is being torn down the middle because each master wants your entire self, and neither will settle for a half-love.

Nowhere do we see this truth more luminously lived than in the life of the Blessed Virgin Mary. She served one Master, and one only. From her hidden girlhood in Nazareth to the foot of the Cross, her heart beat for the will of God and none other. The world offered her nothing, no riches, no comfort, no acclaim. Yet she had the peace that only comes to those who are undivided.

Mammon – by which Christ means not only wealth, but the whole glittering world-system of self-interest, pride, possession, and ease – was never her god. She had nothing of it, and wanted nothing from it. When the angel appeared to her announcing the mystery of the Incarnation of Jesus in her womb, she did not ask, “What do I gain?” She asked only how it would be done. Her question was not the hesitation of doubt, but the readiness of one who had long ago ceased to serve herself.

Had she served mammon, she might have clung to comfort and reputation, refused the shame  of bearing a child outside of wedlock, or demanded safety for her Son. But she served God. And so she said yes to danger, yes to misunderstanding, yes to a sword that would pierce her heart.

The world has a thousand false gods, and Mammon is their king. But Mary bowed to only One—and she did so without fanfare, in silence, and in surrender. She was not merely poor in possessions; she was poor in spirit. And this is the great irony: by giving herself entirely to God, she received more than Mammon could ever offer. Not silver or gold, but grace. Not status, but the joy of bearing Christ into the world.

You and I are always tempted to serve two masters. But Mary shows us another way; the wholeness of a heart given entirely to one Master is simply better. She reminds us that to choose God over Mammon is not merely noble – it is sane. For Mammon takes everything and gives nothing back. But God takes what we offer and fills it with meaning, with peace, and with the light of eternal things.

In the end, the question is not whether you will serve. You will serve someone. The only question is whom—and whether, like the Virgin, your heart is free enough to say: “Behold I am the handmaid of the Lord.” My heart belongs to God alone. 

She came not with words, but with tears — the ancient language of the broken heart. In her silence, she spoke a thousand repentances; in her weeping, a thousand thanksgivings. It was not the perfume that anointed Christ, but the love that poured itself out with reckless abandon, unashamed and unmeasured. The world might call her foolish, but Heaven called her beloved. For in her act, we see that love is not cautious — it kneels, it weeps, it clings to mercy. And the One who knew the weight of every sin spoke peace to her soul, not because she was worthy, but because she believed He was.

There are moments in Scripture which, like doors slightly ajar, invite us into rooms far deeper than we first imagined. One such moment occurs in the Gospel of John, where Christ says: “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up” (John 3:14). At first glance, the comparison may seem almost grotesque; our Saviour is likened to a serpent, an emblem of death and sin. And yet, here lies one of the profoundest truths in all of Christian thought: that God redeems not merely through might, but through our deepest pain.

Recall the scene in the book of Numbers. The Israelites, having once again rebelled against God, are plagued by fiery serpents. They cry out for mercy, and Moses is instructed not to remove the serpents, but to lift up a bronze image of one on a pole. All who looked upon it were healed. They were not told to pretend the serpents weren't real, nor were they told to earn their healing. They had only to look. The very image of their suffering became the conduit for their salvation.

And so it is with the Cross.

Christ was lifted up, not as a mere martyr, nor as a teacher, but as the one who became sin for us (2 Corinthians 5:21). The Cross is no mere symbol; it is the divine paradox. There, the Innocent bore guilt. The Holy bore shame. The Immortal embraced death. And in that darkest moment, the door to light was thrown open.

But let us not rush too quickly to the light. For many of us, the problem is not believing in Christ’s victory – it is believing that our pain, our guilt, our most unmentionable failures, could possibly be included in it. We imagine the Cross as something above us, clean and exalted. But in truth, the Cross descends. It is God stooping down into the filth of our humanity. If Christ is lifted up, He is lifted up with all the sins of the world pressing down upon Him – mine and yours.

This is the invitation: not to hide your wounds, but to bring them into the light of the Cross. To look upon the Crucified One and see not only the cost of love, but its healing. Your deepest pain is not too deep for Him. In fact, it is precisely where He means to meet you.

Lift your eyes, then, not in despair, but in hope. The Cross does not demand perfection; it only asks you to look. And in looking, you may find not only healing, but yourself. There are no more facades, or masks, or games pretending to be okay. Beholding the crucified one, we find the power and meaning behind our suffering. Jesus can use it for our salvation. Once we stop running from our pain, we can exclaim like the legendary 5th century bishop, St. Augustine – “In my deepest wound, I saw your glory and it dazzled me.”

St. Pope John Paul II’s call to build a civilization of love is a powerful reminder that true progress is not measured by wealth, technology, or power, but by the depth of our compassion and the strength of our commitment to one another. He envisioned a world where every human life is valued, where justice and mercy walk hand in hand, and where love becomes the guiding principle of all relationships. In a time often marked by division and brutal violence, his words inspire us to create a society rooted in dignity, solidarity, and peace—a civilization where love is not just a feeling, but a force for transformation. The first brick in building this civilization is Jesus Christ. 

It is a perilous thing, in this passing world, to place any love above Jesus Christ, who is Love Himself. Many fair things there are under the sun – family, our houses, the laughter of children, and the solace of deep companionship. These are good, and given as gifts by the Giver of all light. Yet they are but reflections, glimmering on the surface of the water, of the Great Light from Heaven.

Our hearts, being frail and easily beguiled, are prone to cling to the reflection, forgetting the Sun. But the Lord, who is both Shepherd and King, calls us to a higher love, a consuming fire that purifies all others. “If anyone comes to Me and hates not father and mother, wife and children…”-- so He speaks, not to destroy love, but to order it aright. For in such words there is no call to cruelty or coldness, but rather to a fierce allegiance, a loyalty that puts first things first. He who is before all must be above all, or else all loves grow crooked and dim.

To follow Him is to lay down even the fairest treasures of earth, not in bitterness, but in trust that they shall be returned transfigured. He does not take away to impoverish, but to sanctify. He wants to place every love, every joy, every sorrow, into its proper place beneath the crown of His lordship. Only then do the lesser loves shine with true glory, flowing as clear streams from the great Fountain. For when He is the first love, all else is redeemed; but when He is set aside, even good things become shadows and burdens.

So let the heart be steadfast. Let Him be the axis upon which all turns, the melody to which all harmonies must bend. For He alone is the End and the Way, the Flame imperishable, the Love that neither fades nor fails.

Yet the path of such love is not without its trials. For the heart must be weaned from many lesser loves, and this weaning is often bitter. The soul may cry out, fearing loss, misunderstanding the command as cruelty. But here lies the mystery: in surrender, we are not emptied, but filled. In placing Christ first – before family, before comfort, before even our own lives – we are not forsaking love, but entering into its truest form. For He is the source from which all loves spring, and without Him, they wither like leaves in a wind.

Consider the saints of old, who counted all things loss for the surpassing worth of knowing Him. They were not joyless, nor did they despise the earth, but they saw clearly. Their gaze was fixed beyond the hills, upon a country greater and a King more worthy than all earthly crowns. We too must learn this wisdom: that every good thing flows rightly from a heart anchored in Christ. To love Him first is not to love others less, but more purely, more freely, and with eternity in view. For only in His light do we see light and only in His love are all other loves made whole. Once we order our love properly, then we can finally say with St. Paul as we heard in the Second Reading today, “I (am), an old man, and now also a prisoner for Christ Jesus.” And rejoice! 

Before the shaping of the seas and the rising of the mountains, there was but the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. Through Him were all things made, and without Him not a stone nor star came to be.

Put out into the deep, and let down your nets for a catch, said the voice. It is no small thing to leave the shallows, where footing is sure and the wind is tame, and to trust the unseen deeps. Yet it is there, beyond the known and the safe, that the adventure of Christianity finally begins.