Fr. Brian Soliven Sermons

St. Maximilian Kolbe demonstrated a powerful witness of love through his ultimate act of self-sacrifice at Auschwitz, where he volunteered to die in place of another prisoner—a stranger and a father. Motivated by his deep faith and devotion to Christ and the Virgin Mary, Kolbe’s love transcended fear and self-preservation, embodying the Gospel’s call to lay down one's life for others. His martyrdom stands as a radiant testament to the power of selfless love, even in the face of unimaginable evil.

We must remember, as Moses stood on the heights of Mount Nebo, gazing upon a land he would never tread, that the promise of God is not always the path we walk but the purpose He weaves. It is a strange comfort, is it not, that the man who led so faithfully was withheld from the reward he seemed to earn? Yet here lies the greater mystery -- God had something even better in store. 

Moses, like a mighty mountain casting its last long shadow over the trembling plains, closes the book of Deuteronomy not with the wearied groans of a man defeated, but with the triumphant thunder of a prophet who has seen the Promised Land. There is something oddly divine in his departure—this leader who once stammered now speaks in soaring poetry, blessing tribes like a bard whose soul burns with the fire of God. His farewell is not merely a curtain-call, but the last great note of a symphony that has wandered through wilderness and rebellion, now rising into the solemn music of destiny. He dies, as all true heroes must, just before the victory—because the glory, like all good things, is not for the servant, but for the service.

***Bonus hymn at the end of the homily from the 10AM Mass***

In rural Vacaville, we are familiar with the cry of the rooster crows, as the stars have already blinked out of the sky and a new day is at hand and yet, we are always surprised by morning. So it shall be with the coming of the Son of Man. There is a great paradox in this age, a thing so blindingly obvious that only a modern man could miss it. We prepare for every uncertain thing—storms, exams, pensions, and the possibility of rain on a picnic—but we are scandalously unprepared for the one certain thing: that Christ shall come again in glory, and His kingdom shall have no end.

Now, if you tell a man on the street that Jesus might return this afternoon, he will smile in pity or smirk in cynicism. But tell him his phone battery might die before lunch, and he will run for a charger. We are a race that believes more fervently in the failure of lithium than in the triumph of the Lamb. And yet, the trumpet shall sound.

Our Lord warns in the Gospel this Sunday, “Watch therefore, for you do not know the day nor the hour.” He did not say this to make us nervous, like students awaiting an unannounced quiz. He said it because Heaven is not a theory—it is a wedding. And no one should be caught unwashed and half-dressed when the Bridegroom knocks. I tell you, the world is not a waiting room; it is a battleground, a vineyard, and a bridal chamber all at once. It is not that we have too little time to prepare, but too much noise to remember that time runs out. We are not meant to guess the hour. We are meant to be ready in every hour.

It is a curious thing that when the early Christians spoke of the Second Coming, they did not wring their hands, but lifted their heads. “Maranatha,” they cried—not with fear, but with fire. Come, Lord Jesus! The Church was not built by those who played at religion in peacetime, but by saints who stood watch in the dark, their lamps burning, like loyal soldiers awaiting the return of their general.

And what if He does not return today? Then we live today as if He might—for that is what it means to live in hope. Hope is not wishing upon stars; it is keeping your boots laced and your heart clean because you know the King will ride through the mist. Do not be lulled by the delay. The world will lull you with distractions, with duties, with deadlines, with dopamine. It will whisper, “He delays His coming.” But Christ’s return is not late. It is sudden. When He comes, the masquerade of modernity will be torn like a stage curtain, and the souls of men will be revealed—naked in shame or clothed in glory. Therefore, I say to you: keep your soul in a state of readiness. Not with anxiety, but with awe. Not with fear, but with fervor.

Feed the hungry. Forgive your enemies. Light your lamp. Love your Lord. For when the trumpet sounds, there will be no time to put oil in the lamp. And yet—oh, glorious paradox!—it is today that He knocks. In the beggar. In the Word. In the still small voice. The Second Coming may be closer than we think. Are you ready? 

It is a curious thing, and wholly divine, that the tiniest speck of true faith—no larger than a mustard seed, Our Lord tells us—can upheave mountains and send them staggering into the sea. The world worships size, power, and spectacle, yet it is Heaven that smiles upon the small. A mustard seed is a laughably small thing, and yet it holds within it a forest in potential, a kingdom in miniature. So it is with faith. It is not the pomp of religion nor the parade of certainty that moves the hand of God, but the trembling trust of the soul that dares to believe, even while surrounded by shadows.

In the trials and tempests of life, we are called not to fear, but to trust ever more deeply in the Lord, who never abandons His children. Just as Christ slept peacefully in the boat amidst the storm, so too must we place our confidence in Him, knowing that His divine providence guides all things. Faith is not the absence of struggle, but the certainty that even in suffering, God is near—working all for the good of those who love Him. In surrendering to His will, we find true peace, rooted not in the calmness of the world, but in the steadfast heart of God.

The Transfiguration of our Lord Jesus Christ reveals the profound unity between His divinity and humanity. Upon Mount Tabor, the radiant light that shone from Christ’s face and garments was not a light cast from without, but the splendor of His divine nature, veiled in humility yet now momentarily unveiled. In this glorious manifestation, the Church is given a foretaste of the resurrection and the destiny of all who follow Him. Moses and Elijah speak with Him, signifying the fulfillment of the Law and the Prophets, for Christ is the living center of salvation history. Let us, then, fix our gaze on the transfigured Lord, that we too may be transformed by grace and drawn into the luminous mystery of divine love.

***BONUS Meditation Hymn at the end from St. Mary's beautiful choir***

In every age, man is tempted to believe that the world is enough. He builds cities of glass and steel, sculpts gods in his own image, and fills his days with noise and novelty—yet his soul remains restless. As Saint Augustine so rightly said famously, our hearts are restless until they rest in Thee. He walked in the barren desert of lavish imperial courts and indulged in the finest wines of ancient Rome and found it wanting. To live for this world alone is to walk in a beautiful prison: adorned, yes—but still a cage.

The Christian life begins with a startling reversal. It tells us not merely to look forward, or even inward, but upward. Sursum corda—lift up your hearts! This call that we say during the Eucharistic prayer, echoing through every Mass, is no poetic flourish. It is a scream and a command from above that we are meant for more.  It is the very axis upon which the soul must turn if it is to be free. Does not every human heart desire frustratingly more? 

Our Lord this Sunday in the Gospel Reading is crystal clear: “Take care to guard against all greed, for though one may be rich, one’s life does not consist of possessions.” (Cf. Luke 12:15). Does this not ring true? How fresh to hear this teaching from the lips of Jesus, compared to the putrid air that we’ve all been forced to breathe. 

For heaven is not a sentimental escape from earth—it is the meaning of earth. To aim for heaven is not to despise the world, but to see it rightly. A man who knows the stars walks straighter on the road. Indeed, it is only by contemplating eternity that we begin to understand time.

The great English convert from atheism to Catholicism, G.K. Chesterton, with his usual cheerful thunder, reminds us that the saints are not the ones who escape reality, but the ones who embrace it with such vigor that they can laugh even at death. They have chosen the one thing that cannot be shaken—the eternal love of God. That my friends, is why we are created, why we come to Mass, and why we worship Jesus Christ. And so, we must ask: Where is our treasure? If it is buried in the shifting sands of fashion, fortune, or fleeting pleasure, we shall be buried with it. But if it is anchored in Christ—who is seated at the right hand of the Father—then we are already rising, even now.

Let the world chatter; let it parade its vanities, for as we heard in the first reading today, "vanity of vanities! All things are vanity! … For what profit comes to man from all the toil and anxiety of heart with which he has labored under the sun? All his days, sorrow and grief are his occupation; even at night his mind is not at rest.” (Cf. Ecclesiastes 2:22). 

We are called higher! The Christian smiles, not in scorn, but in serene defiance—for his eyes are fixed on something greater. We are not made for dust, but for glory. Heaven is not far—it is our home. We must not forget it.

In the paradoxical poetry of divine wisdom, it is precisely the apparent chaos of the world that most loudly proclaims the careful choreography of God's providence. The stars do not govern man, nor does man govern himself, but rather both are held in the palm of our Heavenly Father who is at once infinite and intimate.

The notion that man is meant to become divine may strike the modern mind as madness—and indeed, it is—but it is a divine madness, a holy paradox at the very heart of Christianity. The Church does not merely say that man should be good, or even that he should be better; she dares to say that he is called to be like God. Not in pride, as the serpent whispered, but in humility. Through the astonishing mercy of a God who stooped so low as to become man, so that man might be lifted to the heights of and become like Him. It is not that our humanity is abolished, but that it is completed, transfigured. The carpenter from Nazareth builds not only tables, but saints.