Remembering What the Church Proclaims

Dear friends in Christ,

As I shared with those at church last Sunday, and as we come to the end of one year and look toward the next, I’ve been thinking about Christmas—not just what we celebrated, but what we received. And I keep coming back to one moment that feels, to me, like the greatest gift of the season.

On Christmas Day, I was able to bring the Holy Eucharist to two Iranian sisters being held at the Broward Transitional Center. They have been detained since December 3rd, and with that comes the kind of strain that is hard to describe unless you’ve sat with someone living it—uncertainty, fear, long days, and the ache of being cut off from what is familiar and safe.

That day, we prayed together. We read Scripture. And we celebrated Communion—the first time they had been able to receive the Eucharist since their detention began. When the moment came, they wept. Not because everything was suddenly fixed, but because in that simple, holy act, they could feel again what the Church has always proclaimed: Christ is near. Christ has not abandoned them.

I thought of the words we hear at Christmas: “The Word became flesh and lived among us” (John 1:14). God did not stay distant. God came close. And that nearness is not only for sanctuaries filled with candlelight—it is for hospital rooms, kitchen tables, and yes, detention centers too.

The angels called it “good news of great joy” (Luke 2:10). That’s the part that can be hard for us to understand: Christian joy is not the same thing as an easy life. Joy can show up while the hard thing is still happening. It doesn’t erase grief or fear—but it does remind us that darkness doesn’t get the last word. “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light” (Isaiah 9:2). I saw a glimpse of that light on Christmas Day, in tears and trembling hands, in bread broken and a cup shared.

And I’ll tell you something else that surprised me: their joy became a gift to me. I went there to bring them the sacrament, but I left with my own heart strengthened—reminded of what the Church is for, and what we are meant to carry into the world.

Because the Eucharist is not only comfort. It is communion. It is Christ making himself present, feeding his people, binding us together when life is trying to pull us apart. And it forms us. It shapes us into people who can show up with steadiness and love.

Jesus puts it plainly: “I was in prison and you visited me” (Matthew 25:36). He doesn’t speak of the suffering “out there,” as if it’s far away from him. He identifies himself with those who are confined, those who are afraid, those who feel unseen. And after the resurrection, the disciples recognized him “in the breaking of the bread” (Luke 24:35). That recognition isn’t meant to stay in the past—it’s meant to teach us how to see Christ now.

So as we enter this new year, I want to offer a simple prayer to hold onto:

Lord, show me where you are. And give me the courage to come close.

My prayer for you—and for us as a parish—is that 2026 will be a year when we live that prayer: steady, faithful, and rooted in real love. Not love that only speaks, but love that acts—love that comes close, shows up, and carries Christ’s joy into the lives of others.



May the Light of Christ guide you.
May the peace of Christ steady you.
And may the joy of Christ be alive in you—and shared through you.

With love in Christ,