Fr. Brian Soliven Sermons

The words of Jesus punched me in the face. 

“I CAN’T WAIT!” said fifteen-year-old Jayden, his face bright with a wide and eager smile as he looked toward his First Holy Communion this Sunday. The joy in him was hard to miss; it seemed to spread to anyone near him. Wanting to understand it, I asked, “Why are you so excited?”

“All my life I was just a Christian, not living my faith very well. There was so much uncertainty. Then I discovered Catholicism and I started learning more and more. I learned that we truly believe that Jesus is really present in the Eucharist! I want to be with Him so bad!” Then, with tears gathering in his eyes, he asked, “Why doesn’t everyone want to receive Jesus in the Eucharist father?”

To see such a fire of love for Jesus in one so young was a gift, even to an old priest. It is a curious thing: those who have long been in the Church can grow used to her treasures, as a man might grow used to the light of the sun and forget to marvel at it. We begin to take for granted what is, in truth, both strange and wonderful. And so it often happens that someone new, seeing with fresh eyes, reminds us of what we had nearly forgotten.

Why genuflecting before we enter the church pew is important: There is, in the small and easily neglected act of genuflection, something of a quiet rebellion against the modern habit of forgetting what is directly before us. We are creatures prone to abstraction, speaking of a God in the clouds while overlooking Him, so to speak, in the room. To bend the knee before the tabernacle is to correct this imbalance, not by argument, but by posture. The body confesses what the lips are often too hurried or too timid to declare: that here, in this place, Jesus is present who deserves not a nod of acknowledgment, but an act of humble reverence.

It is a useful thing, I think, that the gesture is physical and unmistakable. For Christianity is not merely an arrangement of ideas but an encounter with reality. If one truly believes that Christ is present, not symbolically, not sentimentally, but really, then some outward sign must follow as naturally as kneeling before a king or standing at the edge of a great precipice. It aligns the body with the truth the soul professes.

And there is, too, the matter of witness. We do not perform this act for an audience, and yet it cannot help but be seen. In a world where belief is often treated as a private eccentricity, such a gesture stands quietly but firmly in contradiction. It says, without a word, that something—or rather Someone—of immense consequence is here. To the unbeliever, it may appear curious, even unnecessary. But curiosity is no small beginning. A bent knee may raise a question, and a question, honestly pursued, may open the door to grace as it did young Jayden.

Thus the simple act, repeated countless times, becomes both remembrance and proclamation: a reminder to ourselves that we stand on holy ground, and a sign to others that we do not merely speak of mysteries—we encounter them.

Let our Heavenly Father do the heavy lifting. 

Remember, we bend the knee as Catholics, before we enter a church pew. It’s one of the weird things we do in our religion. We genuflect, bowing humbly before a mysterious presence in the Tabernacle. Once we know who is there, we cannot help but get on one knee. There is, in the human mind, a peculiar restlessness—a kind of noble discontent—which refuses to be satisfied with fragments. We gather ideas as a squirrel gathers acorns, yet find that no collection, however glittering, can quiet the deeper hunger. It is not merely that we wish to know many things, but that we long, however dimly, to know the thing: the unifying truth in which all lesser truths find their meaning.

Standing before Raphael’s famous fresco painting in Vatican City, the Disputation of the Holy Sacrament (gloriously depicted on the Sunday’s bulletin)  one is struck first by its harmony. The scene is divided, yet not divided: heaven above, earth below, and between them no chasm but a communion. The theologians and philosophers on earth bend over their books, gesture in argument, and strain toward understanding. Above them, in serene clarity, the heavenly host of saints and angels gather together.

For above them stands Christ—not as one opinion among many, nor even as the conclusion of a syllogism, but as the Truth in person. It is as though all the scattered rays of human thought converge in Him as in a single sun.

This, I think, is the great scandal and the great relief of Christianity: that Truth is not merely something we grasp, but Someone who grasps us. Our intellects, for all their rigor, are like instruments that can tune themselves only imperfectly. They require a fixed pitch outside themselves. In the figure of Christ, Raphael gives us that pitch, not abstract, not cold, but living and radiant.

The Eucharist at the center of the composition anchors this vision in a startling way. It is not placed among the clouds, but firmly on the altar, within reach of human sight and touch. Here, the highest truth does not remain aloof, but descends into the ordinary. The same Christ who is adored in glory above is present, quietly and mysteriously, below. The suggestion is unmistakable: the truth our minds seek is not only to be contemplated, but to be received.

And so the fresco becomes a kind of map of the soul. We begin among the disputants, armed with questions and sharpened by doubt. We look upward, perhaps with uncertainty, perhaps with longing. But if we follow the movement of the whole, we discover that the journey is not merely from ignorance to knowledge, but from searching to encounter.

In the end, the intellect does not lose its dignity by kneeling; it fulfills it. For to recognize Truth when it stands before you is not the abandonment of reason, but its crowning achievement. And in that recognition, the restless mind finds, at last, its proper rest.

Consider the turning of Paul the Apostle on the road to Damascus, as told in the Acts of the Apostles. Here was a man set firmly against the Church, his course decided, his purpose clear—yet in a moment, the very current of his life was seized and redirected by a higher hand. What seemed fixed proved fluid; what appeared hostile became chosen. If such a transformation can stand at the heart of history, then history itself is not abandoned to chaos but guided by a providence wiser than our fears. The same Father who met Saul in his blindness sees beyond our present uncertainties. Therefore, we need not tremble before the future, as though it were an unwatched road; it is already known, already held, and—mysteriously, but surely—already being shaped toward His good purposes.

St. Padre Pio famously said, "Pray, Hope, and Don't Worry!" Remember, Jesus is orchestrating world events. 

Do not let your hearts be troubled. 

“What is truth?” This question was posed by Pontius Pilate in Gospel of John 18:38 as he interrogated Our Lord shortly before His brutal execution. It is a question at once poignant in its aim, sharp in its focus, and profound in its depth—and one that is far from new to humanity.

From the moment we first gazed upon the stars in the night sky, we have stood in awe of our surroundings, seeking answers to the deepest questions of existence. The human intellect, by its very nature, strives to apprehend and understand reality; indeed, our minds hunger for it. Truth, simply defined, is “what actually is.” Modern man, unfortunately, gleefully defies this definition. He likes to say, “truth is relative”. There is no objective truth to reality. Truth is what I say it is, and how dare you Christian, try to impose your truth on others. 

Consider, dear friends, the image placed before us on the parish bulletin. It stands in quiet contrast to the spirit of defiance we so often encounter. It is the renowned fresco by Raphael, painted within the halls of the Apostolic Palace in Vatican City (just a few doors down from the Sistine Chapel) between 1509 and 1511. This masterpiece, known as The School of Athens, gathers together the greatest minds of the ancient world.

There we see Ptolemy holding the sphere of the earth, striving to map the movements of the heavens. Nearby stands Pythagoras, immersed in numbers and harmony. And Socrates, ever the questioner, engages in dialogue, seeking truth through reason.

Yet, our eyes are drawn, almost irresistibly, to the center, where two towering figures stand: Plato and Aristotle. Plato gestures upward, toward the heavens, teaching that truth lies beyond, in the realm of eternal forms. Aristotle, in contrast, extends his hand toward the earth, reminding us that truth is also found here, in the physical world we can touch and see with our senses.

What a testimony this is to the human longing for truth—to the relentless pursuit of what is real, what is good, what is eternal. The Greeks sought truth with passion, with discipline, with all the power of the human mind. And yet, my brothers and sisters, this is where the story does not end but where it is fulfilled.

For into this great human search steps Jesus Christ.

In the Gospel this Sunday, we encounter the disciples on the road to Emmaus. Like those philosophers of old, they too were seekers. They had placed their hope in Jesus. They believed they had found the truth. But then came the scandal of the crucifixion… and with it, confusion, sorrow, and doubt. Their hopes seemed shattered.

Or were they?

For the Risen Lord draws near. He walks beside them, though they do not yet recognize Him. And in that sacred encounter, He reveals something astonishing: that truth is not merely an idea to be grasped, nor a theory to be proven but a Person to be encountered.

A truth more profound, more mysterious, and more beautiful than anything they could have ever imagined.

It was a glorious morning, as over a hundred of St. Mary’s faithful and hearty parishioners ascended the hill at Caligiuri Ranch in the darkness for what has become a popular Easter tradition – the 6AM Sunrise Mass. Crowned on its peak is a huge life-sized wooden cross overlooking the wide expanse of the Central Valley. A soft hazy midst still draping the farmfields in the distance, adding to the mystical drama of the reason why were there to celebrate.  In the still darkness, the Holy Mass begins. As we move to the Eucharist, the timing of it all is absolutely perfect. “Take this all of you… and eat of it. This is my Body giving up for you.” At the sacred words of consecration, where the risen Jesus Christ is made perfectly present, the sun begins to crest the Sierra Mountains bursting its warm rays of light (This moment is captured on the front page of our Sunday Bulletin). Jesus Christ has been raised from the dead. All creation proclaims its glory! The Resurrection changes everything. 

The Resurrection of Jesus Christ changes everything. Upon this one single doctrine of our Christian religion, the entire 2,000 year old edifice of the Catholic Church is built. If Jesus is still dead, then St. Paul is absolutely correct: “ if Christ has not been raised, then our preaching is in vain, your faith also is in vain.” (Cf. 1 Corinthians 15:14). We should all go home. However, we proclaim the tomb is empty! He lives, just as our Lord promised us he would. That means we are no longer enslaved to death and sin. This Sunday, now known as Divine Mercy Sunday, we encounter the unfathomable greatness of God. There is no sin so heinous, so foul, for God to turn his face away from us.

Man is too often inclined to take his measure from the shadows he casts rather than from the light that first gave him form. Yet it is not our sinfulness that defines us, as though we were creatures born merely to fail, but rather our astonishing capacity to receive the Father’s love—a love that precedes, outlasts, and quietly overthrows every fault through the death and resurrection of our Lord. For the soul, even when bent and burdened, remains fashioned for the communion of the Eternal Love of the Trinity, not condemnation. 

Be Christian Bold!