Fr. Brian Soliven Sermons

The world, in all its modern sophistication, has grown far too clever to pray. It invents machines to answer questions and philosophies to avoid them. It has built tall towers of noise and named them progress. And yet, in the still, stubborn soul of the Christian, there remains something wonderfully irrational—a voice that persists in prayer. It is, by all worldly measures, a foolish thing to do. To speak into silence, to plead with the invisible, to wait for what does not arrive on time—this is either the height of madness or the height of faith. And Christianity, to its eternal credit, has always chosen both.

Prayer is not a mere religious exercise; it is a rebellion against despair. It is the protest of the soul against the finality of facts. The atheist accepts the world as it is; the Christian kneels precisely because he does not. He prays for the sick because he believes death is not the final word. He prays for peace because he believes history is not a closed book. He prays for daily bread because he dares to believe that the universe has a Giver.But above all, the Christian perseveres in prayer. That is the madness that frightens the modern mind most of all—not that the believer prays, but that he keeps praying. He does not stop when nothing happens. He does not give up when the heavens are brass and the silence grows thick and terrible. No, he returns, day after day, like a lover to a locked door, not because he is deluded, but because he is in love. He knows that God is not a machine to be activated, nor a tyrant to be appeased, but a Father to be trusted. And fathers sometimes wait, not because they are cruel, but because they know what is best for their children.

The saints knew this. They were not holy because they got what they asked for, but because they asked and kept asking, even when the answer was a long and aching silence. They understood that prayer does not merely move the hand of God—it moves the heart of man. It stretches the soul. It chisels away pride and polishes the hard edges of the will. It is, in the end, less about our words reaching Heaven and more about Heaven reaching into us.

So persevere, dear Christian. Pray when it is easy, and more when it is not. Pray when God seems near, and especially when He seems absent. For in that absurd fidelity—in that unreasonable, unyielding tenacity—you will discover the deepest secret of the saints: that the very act of prayer is itself the answer.

In the crucible of our deepest pain, where the heart is pierced by sorrow and trial, we encounter the mystery of Christ's own suffering. It is precisely in these moments of darkness that Jesus, the Suffering Servant, draws near, offering His compassionate presence. Through the cross, He transforms our anguish into a path of grace, inviting us to unite our wounds with His, that we may find not despair, but the hope of resurrection. In our pain, we are never alone, for He is with us, the source of all consolation.

At once comical and cosmic, there is something  in the way man complains, even when Heaven is feeding him. In the wilderness, where logic would say all things perish, God instead sends bread—not baked by human hands, but falling like dew upon the dust, as if the stars themselves were shedding crumbs. The Israelites, ever the connoisseurs of captivity, grumbled for garlic and leeks, yet God gave them manna—mystery made meal. It is the grand jest of divine mercy: that when man is at his most miserable, God is at His most generous.

Modern man flees from suffering as if it were a thief in the night, yet the Catholic Church dares to call it a treasure. In the divine paradox so dear to the Catholic mind, redemptive suffering is not a mark of defeat but a participation in the grand drama of salvation. The world sees pain as meaningless, but the Church—scandalously, gloriously—sees the Cross. She teaches that our sufferings, united with Christ's, are not merely endured but offered, like incense rising to heaven, fragrant with love. The martyrs did not die because God abandoned them, but because He invited them to draw nearer. This is not stoicism; it is a song sung in agony—a song that shakes the gates of Hell.

Suffering, in its raw and earthly form, often feels like loss—of control, of comfort, of certainty. Yet in the mystery of the Cross, suffering is transformed into something beautiful and redemptive. For the Christian, pain is never wasted. When united to Jesus crucified, suffering becomes a hidden seed of joy—a deep, burning joy that springs not from relief or resolution, but from love.

Nowhere is this paradox more vividly lived than in the life of St. Francis of Assisi. The Poverello, the little poor man of God, did not seek comfort but embraced poverty, rejection, and pain with startling eagerness. He called suffering his “sister” and welcomed the cross as a kiss from Christ. To most, this is madness. To the eyes of faith, it is radiant sanity.

St. Francis understood that the Cross is not merely an object of devotion but a doorway to deeper union. When we suffer in communion with Jesus, we are drawn into His redeeming love. The pierced hands and feet of the Savior become not just symbols of sacrifice but invitations to intimacy. In bearing wounds, we share in His mission; in being broken, we become like Him.

It was in his own suffering that Francis found his deepest joy. When he received the stigmata—the wounds of Christ—in his body, it was not with fear but with trembling awe and gratefulness. His pain was not merely endured; it was loved. Why? Because it drew him closer to the Beloved. Suffering, then, was no longer a curse, but a triumphant crown.

This does not glorify pain for its own sake. It is not a call to masochism or despair. Rather, it is a call to see with the eyes of eternity. To suffer with Christ is to love with Him, to redeem with Him, to hope beyond reason with Him. It is to whisper in the darkness, “My God, I trust You,” even when everything hurts.

In this light, suffering becomes a sacred gift. It humbles, purifies, and opens the soul wide to grace. The world may never understand this joy but saints like Francis remind us that the Cross is not the end of the story. It is the beginning of resurrection.

And so, when we suffer—whether in body, heart, or spirit—may we not flee too quickly. May we pause, breathe, and gently unite our wounds to His. For in His wounds, we find healing. And in our suffering, united with His, we find joy—deep, lasting, and eternal.

"Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest." In these tender words, Jesus opens His heart to the weary and the wounded. He sees the hidden struggles, the silent tears, the weight no one else notices — and He invites us to lay them down. His call is not to the strong or the perfect, but to the tired, the broken, and the overwhelmed. In Him, there is no judgment, only rest — the kind that reaches deep into the soul, restoring what life has worn down. It is a love that carries, a peace that heals, and a grace that never lets go.

O soul, if you desire to ascend the heights of holiness and be inflamed with the fire of divine love, begin with the sacred gift of repentance. For it is in the weeping of the heart that the veil is lifted, and the brightness of Christ’s mercy is made known. Repentance is the golden key that unlocks the gates of grace; it softens the stony heart and renders it tender to the touch of the Crucified. As wax melts before the flame, so does the proud heart yield before the gaze of Jesus when it is bathed in contrition. In turning from sin, the soul turns toward Love Himself, and in that encounter, it is made radiant, transformed, and drawn ever deeper into the sweetness of the divine embrace.

When Jesus was asked to name the greatest commandment, He answered with profound simplicity and eternal power: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind... and the second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself” (Matthew 22:37–39). In this divine teaching, Jesus gave us not only the foundation of the Christian life but also the key to drawing others into the beauty and truth of the Catholic Church.

To love God with our whole heart means more than words or feelings; it is a radical surrender to His will. It is a life lived in holiness, prayer, and trust. This kind of love is radiant. When others see someone who is fully alive in God’s love—joyful in suffering, peaceful in chaos, humble in victory—they see something supernatural. They see Christ.

But Jesus did not stop there. He tied the love of God inseparably to love of neighbor. Why? Because true love of God overflows—it must be given away. And when we love others as ourselves, especially those who are wounded, lost, or searching, we become living signs of God’s mercy.

This is the heart of evangelization. People do not come to the Church simply because of arguments or traditions. They come because they encounter Love—real, sacrificial, healing love. And that love has a name: Jesus Christ. Through us, His Church becomes a home for the lonely, a refuge for the sinner, and a light for those in darkness.

So let us love boldly. Let our worship be fervent and our service generous. Let our lives reflect the Sacred Heart of Jesus—a heart burning with love for the Father and for every soul He came to redeem. In this way, we do not merely invite people to join a religion; we lead them to encounter the living God, present in the Eucharist, alive in His Church, and waiting with open arms.

Love God. Love your neighbor. And through that love, let us draw the world home to the Catholic faith.

In the grand tapestry of Christian history, few figures shine as brightly as Saints Peter and Paul. Celebrated together on June 29, their shared feast day honors not only their individual missions but also their collective impact on the foundation and expansion of the Roman Catholic Church. As saints, they serve as powerful examples of faith, transformation, and unwavering dedication to Christ.

Saint Peter, the humble fisherman, was chosen by Jesus to be the “rock” upon which the Church would be built (Matthew 16:18). Despite moments of weakness—most famously denying Christ three times—Peter’s story is one of redemption and leadership. He was the first pope, a shepherd guiding the early Christian community through persecution and uncertainty. His martyrdom in Rome, crucified upside down, marked the ultimate testimony of his love for Christ and his flock. Peter’s life reminds the Church that sanctity is not about perfection, but about trust, courage, and surrender to God’s will.

Saint Paul, once a fierce persecutor of Christians, experienced a dramatic conversion on the road to Damascus. From that moment, his life was entirely dedicated to proclaiming the Gospel to the Gentiles. His letters form a significant part of the New Testament and continue to inspire and instruct the faithful. Paul’s fearless missionary journeys, theological insights, and final martyrdom in Rome reveal a heart consumed by the love of Christ and the urgency of evangelization. His life demonstrates that grace can transform even the most hardened hearts into instruments of divine mercy.

For the Roman Catholic Church, their legacy is not merely historical—it is living. They are the cornerstones of a Church that is both grounded in apostolic tradition and sent forth in missionary zeal. Their witness challenges every generation to hold fast to the truth and to share it boldly, even at great cost. As saints, Peter and Paul continue to lead the faithful—not from the pulpit or the sword, but from the eternal throne of grace, where they intercede for a Church still walking the path they helped lay.

In remembering them, the Church remembers its mission, its roots, and its call to holiness. Saint Peter and Saint Paul, pray for us.

The Roman centurion stood apart from the crowds—not by blood or creed, but by the quiet strength of his belief. Though a man of authority, he humbled himself before Jesus, saying, “Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but only say the word, and my servant will be healed.” In that moment, faith crossed boundaries of nation and tradition. Jesus marveled—not at the centurion's power, but at his trust. “I have not found such great faith, even in Israel,” He said. It was not lineage or law that moved Christ, but the heart of a soldier who saw and believed in the unseen.