11th Sunday in Ordinary Time Homily
US Catholic Homily — June 14, 2026
Lectionary Year A · Ordinary Time
First Reading: Exodus 19:2–6a | Psalm 100 | Second Reading: Romans 5:6–11 | Gospel: Matthew 9:36–10:8
“The harvest is abundant but the laborers are few; so ask the master of the harvest to send out laborers for his harvest.” — Matthew 9:37–38
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You Are Called. You Are Sent. You Are Enough.
Good morning, brothers and sisters in Christ. Last Sunday the Church gathered around the altar of Corpus Christi, kneeling in wonder before the mystery of Jesus truly, really, and substantially present in the Eucharist — Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity. We were fed. We were filled. We were reminded that this bread from heaven is not a symbol but a Person.
Today, the Eleventh Sunday in Ordinary Time, the Church does not allow us to simply bask in that consolation. The readings of this Sunday are a summons. They are a hand on the shoulder, a voice at the threshold, a gaze that sees you — not the version of yourself you show to the world, but you, exactly as you are — and says: I am calling you. I am sending you. Go.
Three great movements thread through today’s liturgy like a golden cord. In the First Reading, God stands atop Mount Sinai and tells an often-frightened, frequently-complaining, wilderness-weary people that they are His treasured possession, a kingdom of priests, a holy nation. In the Second Reading, Saint Paul dismantles every argument we might use to disqualify ourselves from God’s love — reminding us that Christ died for us while we were still sinners, still enemies, still lost. And in the Gospel, Jesus looks out over a vast, exhausted, leaderless crowd with a compassion so deep it wounds Him — and He turns to His disciples and says: the harvest is ready. I need workers. Pray. Go. Heal. Raise. Cleanse. Give freely.
These three movements are the architecture of the Christian life: we are chosen (Exodus), we are loved despite ourselves (Romans), and we are sent (Matthew). If you take hold of only one truth from this homily, let it be this: You were not saved to sit still.
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“You Shall Be My Special Possession”
First Reading — Exodus 19:2–6a
Exodus 19:2–6a
In those days, the Israelites came to the desert of Sinai and pitched camp. While Israel was encamped here in front of the mountain, Moses went up the mountain to God. Then the LORD called to him and said, “Thus shall you say to the house of Jacob; tell the Israelites: You have seen for yourselves how I treated the Egyptians and how I bore you up on eagle wings and brought you here to myself. Therefore, if you hearken to my voice and keep my covenant, you shall be my special possession, dearer to me than all other people, though all the earth is mine. You shall be to me a kingdom of priests, a holy nation.”
There is a small detail in this passage that most people pass over in their hurry to reach the dramatic declarations of God: the Israelites are encamped “in front of the mountain.” They are not yet on the mountain. Moses goes up; the people wait below. And yet it is to those waiting people — not to Moses the prophet, not to Aaron the priest, not to Joshua the soldier — that God directs His most intimate, most astonishing speech: “You shall be my special possession, dearer to me than all other people.”
Think about who these people are. They have been slaves for four hundred years. They have just completed a harrowing flight through a parted sea. They have already complained about the water, the food, the lack of meat, the absence of leadership. They are, by any reasonable measure, a difficult and traumatized people. And God looks at them and says: “You are my treasure.” The Hebrew word is *segullah* — a personal treasure, the kind a king keeps locked in a private chamber, not in the public vault. Not an institutional asset. A personal jewel.
Brothers and sisters, this word is spoken over you today. Whatever you have been through in the wilderness of your own life — whatever years of slavery to fear, addiction, anxiety, resentment, or failure you have lived through — God looks at you on this Sunday morning and says the same thing He said at Sinai: You are my segullah. My personal treasure. More dear to me than you can comprehend.
But God does not stop with the declaration. He immediately moves to the vocation: “You shall be to me a kingdom of priests, a holy nation.” This phrase — taken up in the New Testament and applied directly to the baptized in the First Letter of Peter (2:9) — is one of the most revolutionary statements in all of Scripture. In the ancient world, only designated people could approach the divine: the high priest on the Day of Atonement, the Levitical caste in the temple, the holy men of every religious tradition. Everyone else stood outside the veil.
God is abolishing that arrangement. He is saying: Every one of you — every shepherd, every former slave, every anxious mother, every grieving elder — is called to priestly existence. Not just the ordained. Not just the educated. Not just the virtuous. All of you. A kingdom where every citizen is, in their daily life, a mediator of the divine blessing to those around them. This is what the Church means when it speaks of the “priesthood of all the baptized” — the call that is yours by virtue of your confirmation, not your ordination.
The question this reading asks us is not whether we are called. It settles that. The question is: Are we living it?
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Responsorial Psalm — Psalm 100:1–2, 3, 5
R/ We are his people, the sheep of his flock.
Sing joyfully to the LORD, all you lands; serve the LORD with gladness; come before him with joyful song. Know that the LORD is God; he made us, his we are; his people, the flock he tends. The LORD is good: his kindness endures forever, and his faithfulness, to all generations.
Psalm 100 — the Jubilate Deo, as it has been called for twenty centuries — is the Church’s great song of belonging. “His we are.” Three words in English, two in Hebrew: *lo anachnu.* “To Him we belong.” Not to our employers, not to our fears, not to our pasts, not to the culture that tells us our worth is measured by our productivity or our net worth. We belong to God.
Notice the logic of the Psalm: it moves from joy to service to knowledge. “Serve the LORD with gladness” comes before the theological statement “know that the LORD is God.” This is not an accident. Joy is not the reward of correct theology — joy is the environment in which correct theology becomes possible. You cannot know, in any transformative way, that God is good until you have practiced serving Him with gladness even before you feel like it. The knowledge deepens through the doing.
“His kindness endures forever” — the Hebrew word is *hesed,* one of the most beautiful and untranslatable words in all of human language. It means merciful-loving-kindness-fidelity all at once. It is the love of a spouse who stays through the worst years. It is the love of a parent who never stops watching for the prodigal’s return. *Hesed* never runs out. It does not have a cutoff date. It does not expire when your behavior worsens. This is what we sing on our way to the harvest.
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“While We Were Still Sinners”
Second Reading — Romans 5:6–11
Brothers and sisters: Christ, while we were still helpless, died at the appointed time for the ungodly. Indeed, only with difficulty does one die for a just person, though perhaps for a good person one might even find courage to die. But God proves his love for us in that while we were still sinners Christ died for us. How much more then, since we are now justified by his blood, will we be saved through him from the wrath. Indeed, if, while we were enemies, we were reconciled to God through the death of his Son, how much more, once reconciled, will we be saved by his life. Not only that, but we also boast in God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have now received reconciliation.
Saint Paul is doing something quietly brilliant in this passage, and we should not rush past it. He is arguing from the greater to the lesser — a classical rhetorical move called *a fortiori.* His argument runs like this: If God was willing to do the hardest thing (die for His enemies) when the relationship was at its worst, how much more can we trust Him to do the easier thing (sustain and complete our salvation) now that the relationship has been restored?
But the word that should arrest every one of us is the one Paul repeats three times, in three variations: while we were helpless, while we were sinners, while we were enemies. Three times Paul underlines the same insistence: God did not wait for us to get better before He loved us. He did not love us because we deserved it. He loved us first, fully, irreversibly — in our worst moment, as our worst selves.
This has enormous practical implications for how we understand God’s call. If you are sitting in this pew this morning with a conscience weighted by sin — if you feel too broken, too inconsistent, too far from the person you know you should be — Romans 5 addresses you directly. God did not commission perfect people at Sinai. He commissioned former slaves. Jesus did not choose polished religious scholars for His Twelve. He chose fishermen, a tax collector, a political zealot, and at least one man He knew would betray Him. The call does not presuppose holiness. It creates it — over time, through use, through the grace that flows from the mission itself.
There is a phrase in this passage that rarely gets the attention it deserves: “we also boast in God through our Lord Jesus Christ.” Paul is not recommending arrogance. He is recommending something more subversive: the refusal to be ashamed of the Gospel. In Rome — the imperial capital of the known world, where power was the only currency and weakness was despised — Paul tells the Christians: boast. Not in yourselves, but in a God who died for His enemies and calls that a victory. This is a defiant proclamation that the world’s measure of greatness has been overthrown.
In America in 2026, we still need this defiance. The pressure to be quietly Christian — to hold your faith politely in private, to never let it inconvenience your career or your social standing, to apologize for the more difficult teachings of the Church — is immense. Paul says: boast. Not with aggression or contempt for others, but with the settled, quiet confidence of someone who knows who they are and whose they are.
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“The Harvest Is Abundant — Go”
Gospel — Matthew 9:36–10:8
Matthew 9:36–10:8
At the sight of the crowds, Jesus’ heart was moved with pity for them because they were troubled and abandoned, like sheep without a shepherd. Then he said to his disciples, “The harvest is abundant but the laborers are few; so ask the master of the harvest to send out laborers for his harvest.” Then he summoned his twelve disciples and gave them authority over unclean spirits to drive them out and to cure every disease and every illness. The names of the twelve apostles are these: first, Simon called Peter, and his brother Andrew; James, the son of Zebedee, and his brother John; Philip and Bartholomew, Thomas and Matthew the tax collector; James, the son of Alphaeus, and Thaddeus; Simon from Cana, and Judas Iscariot who betrayed him. Jesus sent out these twelve after instructing them thus: “Do not go into pagan territory or enter a Samaritan town. Go rather to the lost sheep of the house of Israel. As you go, make this proclamation: ‘The kingdom of heaven is at hand.’ Cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse lepers, drive out demons. Without cost you have received; without cost you are to give.”
There are four words at the heart of this Gospel that I want to place before you this morning, because they change everything about how we read the rest of the passage. Four words in Matthew 9:36: “his heart was moved.” The Greek word is *splagchnistheis* — from the word for the intestines, the deep visceral organs, the gut. It is the strongest word in the Greek language for compassion. It means not a polite sympathy from a distance, but a physical wrenching, a gut-level being moved by someone else’s pain.
Jesus looked at the crowd — thousands of ordinary people, troubled, wandering, leaderless — and His body responded before His mind could analyze the situation. This is important: the mission of the Church does not begin with a strategy or a program or a committee. It begins with a gut-wrenching encounter with human suffering that will not let you turn away. Every great saint, every missionary, every Catholic social worker who ever did something truly transformative began here: they saw the crowds, their hearts were wrenched, and they could not look away.
Then Jesus does something unexpected. Instead of immediately commissioning the disciples to go, He tells them to pray. “Ask the master of the harvest to send out laborers.” The disciples are standing right there — He is about to send them — and He tells them to pray for workers. Why? Because He is teaching them something essential about the nature of vocation: it is not self-generated. You do not decide to be a disciple of Jesus the way you decide on a career. You are sent. And before you are sent, you must pray — asking God to give you the grace not merely to do His work but to see it as He sees it, with that gut-level compassion rather than professional obligation.
“The harvest is abundant but the laborers are few.” Brothers and sisters, these words are not metaphor. They are the literal description of the Catholic Church in America in 2026. There are dioceses in the American Midwest where a single priest serves four or five parishes. There are Catholic schools in inner cities that are closing for lack of teachers and financial support. There are hospitals, prisons, nursing homes, and homeless shelters desperate for chaplains, volunteers, and lay ministers. There are millions of Catholics — perhaps two-thirds of those who were baptized — who have drifted from active practice. The harvest is enormous. The laborers are genuinely few.
And then the commission itself: “Cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse lepers, drive out demons. Without cost you have received; without cost you are to give.” These are not instructions given to a trained professional class. They are given to fishermen and tax collectors and political radicals — ordinary people who had, up to this moment, spent their lives doing anything but religious ministry. Jesus takes their ordinariness and their incompetence and their mixed motives and their eventual failures — He already knows one of them will betray Him — and He says: Go. I have given you what you need. Use it.
“Without cost you have received; without cost you are to give.” This single line is the antidote to every form of spiritual selfishness. The mercy you have received in confession — give it away. The peace you discovered in prayer — share it. The hope that sustained you through your darkest year — offer it. The faith that was planted in you, perhaps by a parent or a grandparent who is now gone — carry it forward. You did not earn any of it. Pass it on.
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A Story for the 11th Sunday: The Night Shift Nurse
There was a woman named Carmen, a registered nurse working the night shift at a regional hospital in the Central Valley of California. She had grown up in a devout Mexican-American Catholic family — daily rosary, First Fridays, the full tradition. But in her thirties, the pressures of hospital work, a difficult marriage, and the accumulating weight of too many deaths had dulled her faith. She still went to Mass on Sundays, mostly out of habit. She received Communion without thinking much about it. She prayed in the car on the way to work because there was nothing else to do, but it felt mechanical.
One night, she was assigned to a man in his eighties named Walter, admitted with congestive heart failure. He was agitated, frightened, and alone — his family was three states away and had not yet arrived. He kept calling out and reaching for a hand that wasn’t there. Carmen sat down next to him at 2 a.m., between her other responsibilities, and held his hand. She didn’t say much. She had nothing particularly spiritual to say. She was exhausted and her feet hurt and she had another six hours on shift.
After a while, Walter grew calm. He looked at her and said, “You stayed.” She said, “Of course.” He said, “Nobody stays anymore.” They sat in silence for a while. Then Walter asked her if she believed in God. She hesitated — and then, for the first time in years, said something she hadn’t planned: “I do. And I think He’s in this room right now.”
Walter died at 4 a.m. He died with his hand in hers. She walked out of that room and into the break room and sat alone for twenty minutes, and something in her had shifted — as if a window had been opened in a room that had been sealed too long. She called her pastor the next day and asked to meet. It had been three years since she had been to confession.
Brothers and sisters, Carmen had not been to a mission training program. She had not read a book on evangelization. She had no plan. She simply showed up, with her exhausted body and her dimmed faith, and let her heart be moved by a man who was troubled and abandoned, like a sheep without a shepherd. And the harvest happened, in both of them.
This is the mission Jesus is describing in today’s Gospel. It does not require credentials. It requires presence. It requires the willingness to stay when staying is costly. It requires the habit of asking, in any room you enter: Who here is troubled and abandoned? And what has God given me that I can give away?
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A Saint for American Catholics: Saint Frances Xavier Cabrini
Today’s readings call us to mission, so it is fitting to honor one of the great missionary saints of American soil: Mother Frances Xavier Cabrini, the first American citizen to be canonized, whose feast day falls on November 13.
Francesca Cabrini was born in 1850 in Lombardy, Italy, the youngest of thirteen children. Sickly from birth, she was told by her superiors and even by Rome that she was too frail for missionary work. She had intended to go to China. Pope Leo XIII told her: “Not to the East, but to the West.” And so in 1889, she sailed for New York City — not with a team of trained professionals, not with institutional funding, not with government support, but with six sisters and an unshakeable conviction that God had sent her.
What she found in New York broke her heart and set it on fire simultaneously. Hundreds of thousands of Italian immigrants, crammed into the tenements of lower Manhattan, working in conditions of near-slavery, their children dying of tuberculosis and typhus, their faith eroding under the pressure of poverty and discrimination, their dignity ground down daily by a society that did not want them. The heart of Cabrini was moved with pity for them, exactly as Jesus was moved with pity for the crowds in Galilee.
Over the next forty years, she founded sixty-seven institutions across the United States, Europe, and South America — schools, hospitals, orphanages, clinics. She crossed the Atlantic twenty-three times. She did not do it from behind a desk. She laid bricks. She negotiated with hostile city officials. She confronted corrupt landlords. She sailed upriver in Ecuador in a canoe, contracting malaria and continuing to work. She was once told by a New York archbishop that there was no room for her mission in the city and that she should go back to Italy. She said, respectfully but absolutely: “Your Grace, the Pope himself told me to come to the West. I am not going back.”
She died in Chicago on December 22, 1917, not from exhaustion but from malaria contracted years earlier. She was canonized in 1946 by Pope Pius XII, who called her the “Patroness of Immigrants.” Her body is enshrined in New York City — the same city that once tried to turn her away.
Saint Frances Xavier Cabrini heard the same Gospel we hear today: “The harvest is abundant but the laborers are few.” And she looked at the harvest around her — the sick, the poor, the abandoned, the immigrant — and she gave everything she had, without cost, because without cost she had received.
“”I can do all things. He who strengthens me is not a man but Jesus Christ.”” — Saint Frances Xavier Cabrini
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The Harvest in Your Neighborhood: What This Sunday Means on Monday
Let us be honest with one another about something: it is easy to be moved during Mass by the words “Go, cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse lepers, drive out demons.” It is easy to feel the call in the warmth of this sanctuary, surrounded by music and community and the beauty of the liturgy. The challenge — the real and daily challenge — is to carry that summons out through those doors and into the specific, often unglamorous harvest field of your actual life.
For the Parent
The harvest field is your dinner table. It is the car on the way to school. It is the fifteen minutes before lights out when your child is willing to talk about almost anything if you are simply present and not looking at your phone. You are a kingdom of priests in your home — the primary transmitters of the faith, the mediators of God’s love to the children He has entrusted to you. The Church can do many things, but she cannot do what you do in those unguarded moments. The harvest in your family is your specific, irreplaceable vocation.
For the Young Adult
You live and work and study in a harvest field that the institutional Church cannot easily reach — the university lecture hall, the corporate office, the startup, the group chat, the gym. The friends around you who are restless and searching but would never walk into a church are looking, often without knowing it, for exactly what you carry: a coherent account of why life has meaning, why suffering does not have the last word, why love is more than chemistry, why it is worth living with integrity when no one is watching. You don’t need to preach. You need to live it visibly and be willing to explain it when asked. That willingness is a form of healing.
For the Person in the Middle Years
The harvest field of middle age is often the harvest field of quiet crisis — the colleague whose marriage is ending, the neighbor who received a diagnosis, the aging parent who is frightened, the old friend who has drifted and does not reach out because they feel ashamed. These are your lepers — not outcasts in the legal sense, but people on the margins of community, people who believe, perhaps, that no one would come if they called. You come. You stay. You hold the hand in the night. This is the mission.
For the Older Catholic
Do not let anyone tell you that the harvest field closes at a certain age. Katharine Drexel prayed for the missions from a wheelchair for eighteen years and the missions grew. Frances Cabrini crossed the Atlantic at sixty-three, still laying bricks. The prayer of an older Catholic who has lived through loss and doubt and dark nights and has come through still believing — that prayer is worth more than most of us understand. And the testimony of someone who has practiced faith across decades carries a weight that no homily can replicate. The harvest needs your history.
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Scriptures to Carry Into This Week
- Matthew 28:19–20 — “Go, therefore, and make disciples of all nations…” The Great Commission is the New Testament fulfillment of the Sinai covenant: a kingdom of priests, sent to all peoples.
- 1 Peter 2:9 — “You are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people of his own, so that you may announce the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light.” Peter quotes Exodus 19 directly, applying it to the baptized.
- Isaiah 6:8 — “Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying: Whom shall I send? Who will go for us? ‘Here I am,’ I said; ‘send me!'” The prophet’s response to the divine call is the model for every Christian vocation.
- Luke 10:2 — “The harvest is abundant but the laborers are few; so ask the master of the harvest to send out laborers for his harvest.” Jesus repeats the harvest image in Luke’s commissioning of the seventy-two — the sending is not only for the Twelve.
- Romans 8:38–39 — “For I am convinced that neither death, nor life… nor any other creature will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” The foundation of the mission: nothing can undo what God has established in us.
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Conclusion: Here I Am — Send Me
Brothers and sisters, as we come now to the altar — as the priest elevates the Eucharist that we have just celebrated on this Corpus Christi-fresh Sunday — I want to place before you a single question to carry with you into this week. Not a complicated question. Not a theological question. A practical question.
Who in your life is troubled and abandoned, like a sheep without a shepherd?
You know their name. It came to mind almost immediately, didn’t it? The neighbor who never seems to have visitors. The coworker who has been quieter than usual. The family member you haven’t called in six months, not because you don’t love them but because life accelerated and somehow the call never happened. The friend who sent a one-line text three weeks ago saying “I’m struggling” and you replied “I’m here” and then the conversation ended and you haven’t followed up.
Jesus looked at the crowds with a gut-level compassion that moved Him to action. He then turned to His disciples — to the people He was with, to the people right next to Him — and said: I need you to go to them. Not to the ends of the earth. Not first. First, to the lost sheep of Israel. To the people immediately around you. To your harvest field.
You have been chosen by God. You have been loved before you deserved it. You have been filled at this table with the bread of heaven. Now the Mass ends with its ancient command: Ite, missa est. Go. You are sent.
The harvest is abundant. The laborers are few. You are one of them — imperfect, inadequate by your own measure, gloriously sufficient in His. Go and give, without cost, what you have received without cost.
Here I am, Lord. Send me.
Glory and praise for ever. Amen.
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Reflection Questions for Personal Prayer or Group Discussion
1.. God calls the Israelites “my special possession” at Sinai — before they have done anything to deserve it. Do you experience yourself as God’s treasured possession? What would change in how you carry yourself through Monday if you did?
2.. Saint Paul says Christ died for us “while we were still sinners” and “while we were enemies.” Is there an area of your life where you still feel you must earn God’s love before He will send you on mission? How might today’s Second Reading challenge that belief?
3.. Jesus was moved with gut-level compassion when He saw the crowds. Who in your immediate world — your family, your neighborhood, your workplace — is troubled and abandoned, and what is one concrete thing you could do this week to go to them?
4.. “Without cost you have received; without cost you are to give.” What specific gift — faith, healing, hope, presence, practical help — have you received that you are withholding from someone who needs it?
5.. Saint Frances Xavier Cabrini was told she was too frail and too unqualified for the mission she felt called to. Have you let a sense of unworthiness or incompetence hold you back from a call you sense? What is one step toward saying yes this week?
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Prayers of the Faithful — 11th Sunday in Ordinary Time
Presider: Brothers and sisters, chosen by God as His treasured possession and sent by Christ into the harvest of the world, let us bring before the Lord the needs of His Church and His people.
- For the Catholic Church throughout the United States: that she may be renewed in her sense of mission — that every baptized person may understand themselves as a laborer in the harvest, equipped and sent by Christ to a world that is troubled and abandoned. We pray to the Lord.
Lord, hear our prayer.
- For all who are called to ordained and consecrated life: that the Church in America may receive a new generation of priests, deacons, religious sisters and brothers — men and women who hear the voice of the Lord saying “Whom shall I send?” and who answer with Isaiah: “Here I am.” We pray to the Lord.
Lord, hear our prayer.
- For the United States of America: that our nation may recover a sense of compassion for the vulnerable — for immigrants who arrive on our shores as the Israelites arrived in the desert, exhausted and seeking a promised land; for the poor, the sick, the imprisoned, and all who are troubled and abandoned in our midst. We pray to the Lord.
Lord, hear our prayer.
- For all parents, grandparents, and guardians: that they may understand the depth of their vocation as the primary evangelizers of their children — a kingdom of priests within their own homes — and find joy and courage in that irreplaceable mission. We pray to the Lord.
Lord, hear our prayer.
- For those who feel called to some form of ministry or mission but are held back by a sense of unworthiness, fear, or past failure: that the words of Saint Paul — “while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” — may free them to say yes to the vocation that is waiting for them. We pray to the Lord.
Lord, hear our prayer.
- For the sick, the grieving, and those who are in the darkest valleys of their lives: that through the ministry of this community — through visits, prayers, practical help, and simple presence — they may encounter the healing power of Christ, who was moved with compassion at the sight of every suffering person. We pray to the Lord.
Lord, hear our prayer.
- For the faithful departed, especially those who labored in the harvest alongside us — catechists, missionaries, parents of faith, priests and religious who have gone before us: that they may now rest in the joy of the harvest fully gathered, in the kingdom that has no end. We pray to the Lord.
Lord, hear our prayer.
Presider: Lord God, You have made us Your special possession and called us a kingdom of priests. Receive our prayers, and grant that this community may go forth from this altar not merely as people who have been comforted, but as laborers who have been sent — to heal the sick, to free the captive, to announce Your kingdom in every corner of our lives. We ask this through Christ our Lord.
All: Amen.
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11th Sunday in Ordinary Time · June 14, 2026 · Lectionary Year A · US Catholic Homily
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