A few years ago, my house was broken into on Super Bowl Sunday. Turns out, it's a great day for burglars. If the TV isn't on, people are probably watching the game somewhere else, so ... easy pickins'. I'll never forget walking into my bedroom and realizing someone had been there. My stuff was thrown all over the floor. The closet was torn apart. It was disorienting and disturbing - someone had invaded the space I thought was secure. After that, I bought an alarm system. And every Super Bowl Sunday since, I'm extra careful to lock the doors and keep the lights on. That experience made me more alert. Not scared. Just attentive.

Not long ago, I was called to a hospital to anoint a woman in her early 80s. She was dying, and visibly in pain. But what struck me most wasn’t her suffering — it was the atmosphere in the room. She had eight children and 30 foster kids, and many of them were gathered around her. You’d expect sorrow, fear, maybe even despair. But the room was filled with something else entirely — a quiet strength, a kind of sweetness. It was as if she was suffering not just with them, but for them. And they, in love, were suffering for her. The pain was real. But so was the peace. I didn’t want to run. I felt as if I was in a little paradise, beeping machines and all.

When I was a kid growing up in New England, I'd occasionally go on a whale watch. Once we went out with calm waters and clear skies. But on the way back in, the sea got rough. I was just a kid, and I remember thinking we should turn left or right toward the shoreline I could see. But the pilot of the boat kept going straight - right into the waves - focused on a small, discouragingly distant lighthouse. Even when it flickered in and out of sight, he stayed the course. He knew where he was going.

When I was 22, I entered St. Peter’s Basilica for the first time. It floored me. I could hardly take it in, its grandeur, majestic arches, vibrant colors, and the light that danced through its high windows. Somehow, amidst such splendor, I felt an overwhelming sense of belonging, as if I had finally come home.

Jesus reorients how we Catholics see sacred buildings. In today’s Gospel he says, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up” (John 2:13-22). His riddle implies, shockingly, that his own body is now the fundamental dwelling place of God and humanity. The temple in Jerusalem has been superseded.

I lost my wallet this year. It was such an annoyance to replace everything in it. A friend, moved by sympathy, gave me a beautiful new one. One month later I lost that one, too, with all my newly replaced cards. No matter what I did, I couldn't find what I had lost. I resigned myself to never seeing either of my wallets again.