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Delaware Koinonia, 901 N. Dupont Street, Wilmington, DE (2026)

05/31/2026

Holy Trinity

I still remember in my early years in the Oblates, one of my mentors explaining the vows to me.

He said Brian, the vows are about not holding onto anything too tightly. Whether it is a relationship. An item. Our own safety. Our desire for control.

Everything is gift. And you should always be ready to give gifts away.

Now, I didn’t quite understand him at the time.

I looked around at my possessions and thought, who would want any of these things? I’m not going to need to worry about holding on too tightly if no one else wants them. I mean seriously, I still have sweatpants from high school I am still wearing.

But this past weekend, I was reminded of the wisdom he gave me all those years ago.

It was about 30 minutes before graduation when I get a text.

What shoe size are you?

Umm 10.

Awesome. Can we have your shoes. One of the grads shoes just fell apart.

Then about 10 minutes later. Brian, we’ve got a guy without socks. Do you have a black pair?

Now thankfully, everyone else managed to maintain their wardrobe intact for the ceremony so that I didn’t lose any additional pieces of my own.

But I couldn’t help returning to that wisdom. How the vows are designed to keep us from holding on anything too tightly.

Because ultimately the vows are simply ways we are invited to approach the world. And each of those vows is modeled off the ultimate vow we hear in this Gospel.

For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son.

Is this not the ultimate act of not holding on too tightly?

Gifting us the Son.

A Son who will be misunderstood and criticized and threatened.

A Son who will be arrested, scourged and crucified.

Refusing to hold Him so tight that he cannot walk the path that He had chosen.

Refusing to shield him from the world and its cruelties because that would mean shielding Him from its beauties and goodness at the same time.

Loving Him enough to let Him be free. Free to live in the Spirit. Free to send forth the Spirit.

And in his example. We are given the same model of what love looks like.

It is loving without holding on too tightly.

It is loving without trying to control.

It is loving without trying to manipulate or use who or what we love for our own ends.

It is loving that allow us to let go. To send forth. With our blessing.

It is loving that allows us to give away what we hold as gift.

It is loving without trying to anticipate the outcome. Without having certainty about where it will all go.

It is loving the world as our God has loved the world. It is loving as our God has loved us.

Freely walking beside one another into the future we are creating together.

May God be Praised.

05/25/2026

Pentecost Sunday

Let’s be real. Yesterday’s weather was unpleasant.

Cold. Rainy. Overcast.

I remember looking outside and going. Nope. I am not leaving the confines of my bedroom.

I had Senior Prom on Friday and got to bed around 2 AM.

And my lungs are still being temperamental.

But then I remembered, I had already promised several grads that we would have lunch.

I had fleeting thoughts of cancelling. Making up an excuse why I couldn’t make it.

But I couldn’t do it.

And so I found myself leaving the comfort and safety of my room for the chaos that is IHOP.

All because I love these guys.

And in our breakfast, I was reminded of one of the key truths of this feast that we celebrate.

Which is that it is love that is always going to get us out from behind our locked doors and into the world.

It is love that is going to push us into the crowds, proclaiming the truth that will set one another free.

For do we not believe that the Spirit is just that? The love incarnate of our God. Entrusted to each of us.

A love that is never meant to be hidden away. Hoarded or controlled.

But a love that shatters all the locked doors we cower behind. All the walls and gates we assemble. To keep certain people in and other people out.

My friends, this feast really is that simple.

We, the Church, are to be a people driven by one thing . . . love.

We, the Church, are to be a people whose language is the language of love.

We, the Church, are to be a people who are known by the way we love.
Now,I know that our collective Christian witness in this present moment is not living up to this call.

There are far too many Christian voices who have forgotten the language of love.

Who speak words of violence and retribution.

Who speak words of superiority and condemnation and division.

Whose words are lies, poisoning our discourse. Fracturing the unity into which are all called.

Whose actions are seeking to create a world in which a chosen few stay barricaded off in an upper room, while the rest are left to fend for themselves. A chosen few who happen to look the same, think the same, vote the same, and experience the world in a similar way.

But this is not the Christianity that we are gifted with this day.

We are given the gift of a love that transforms each of us into the Church.

So that the words we speak are words that give life.

That build up. That strengthen. That encourage. That comfort.

That defend the most vulnerable.

That speak for those whose voices are silenced.

That take a stand for what is right, even when we are called naive. Foolish. Traitors.

So that the actions we take are taken in love.

Welcoming the stranger. Embracing the prodigal children in our midst.

Reconciling with those who have wounded us. Forging bridges to those on the proverbial other side.

Doing the work . . . feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, caring for the sick, forming our youth, visiting our imprisoned, cultivating peace, sheltering the homeless.

Extending our hand and grasping our neighbor’s hand. Whether that hand is Black or white. Calloused from decades of undocumented migrant labor or sweaty from the anxiety that is their daily struggle. A child’s hand or a hand wrinkled with the years. Hands pockmarked by needles or scarred from the consequences of war. Until every hand is linked together in the mystery of the Church we now celebrate.

Today is the day my friends. Pentecost. Where our story begins.

May we go forth to love with the love that has been given us.

May God be Praised.

05/18/2026

Ascension Sunday

This little stretch of May is providing me with a bit of emotional whiplash.

This past Friday, I sat in the bleachers and watched two of my Nativity grads walk across the stage at Delaware State University. A moment that always leaves me emotional.

For I can’t help but think of the journey that has gotten us to this point.

All of the conversations. All of the obstacles that had to be faced. All of the times we wrestled . . . with self-doubt, with insecurity, with loss, with injustice.

All culminating in this moment. A moment that goes so quickly and suddenly we are into the next chapter. We are taking the next step along the path.

And then this upcoming Tuesday, I will gather with several grads as we mark 10 years since Brandon Wingo was murdered.

10 years where his absence has felt like a constant weight that we collectively carry.

10 years in which we journeyed on. Marking the milestones that he never got to reach. Trying to live our lives in ways that would make him proud.

There is something about this time of year that feels overflowing with endings, transitions, next chapters, and the closing of doors.

Students graduate. Transfer. Prepare for the next step into the work force or enter a new school.

Kids have their final game. Act in their final show. Sit at their favorite lunch table for the last time.

Couples get married. People change jobs. Retire. Move. Start over. Start new.

And amidst all of this transition, we feel more acutely aware than ever of who is not here with us.

Those separated from us by distance, by decisions made, by illness, by politics.

Those separated from us by death.

Which is why it feels so fitting that we mark the Feast of the Ascension in the midst of this all.

For this feast is all about a goodbye. A transition. A new chapter. A departure.
Jesus offers his disciples no false guarantees.

He does not promise that he will physically remain with them forever.

He does not tell them that nothing will change. That everything will be fine.

He does not invite them to stay where they are.

No, on the contrary, he gives them work to do.

Sending them forth to live the Gospel.

To draw others into this community . . . by the words they speak, by the actions they take.

And yet, he leaves them with exactly what they will need in order to keep moving forward into the chapters that await them.

1st, he ensures that they have each other.

That the work they will do will always be done within a village that will be there for them, loving them, supporting them, comforting and challenging them.

And 2nd, he will gift them the Spirit. His Spirit. A Spirit that encompasses every member of the Body of Christ.

The ancestors on whose shoulders we stand.

Those who fought, bled, protested and died to secure the blessings of this present moment.

All of our kin and friends who have gone before us, marked by the sign of faith. Those whose memories remain a blessing.

All present with us. All present to us. Each and every moment.

And so my friends, as we face our own transitions. Our own endings, beginnings, and goodbyes.

May we follow the example of Christ.

May we go forth surrounded by our village. To do this work together. The work of building the kingdom of God entrusted to each of us.

And may we do so enlivened by the Spirit. The Spirit of Christ and his Body who will be with us always. Until the end of time.

May God be Praised

05/11/2026

6th Sunday of Easter

Having worked in education for close to two decades, I am well aware of how schools are basically petri dishes.

And over the years, I have gotten my share of bugs that have laid me low for a few days. But with a little grit, you persevere and keep moving. Because there is always work to be done. The school year stops for no one that is for sure.

But this year has been something different.

Somehow I picked up something or multiple somethings that have been messing with my system since Easter Sun.

Every week seemed to bring a new symptom. And my denial just kept growing.

I could just fight this off. With a little more time. Getting a few extra hours of sleep.

But I was not getting better.

So finally, I went to the doctor.

Now, it should be clear that my mother has been asking me to do this for weeks. And she was right. (The best Mother’s Day gift I can give her. Admitting once again that she knew better.)

Because I had somehow developed an infection in my lung. An easily treatable infection. If I had simply gone to the doctor.

But honestly, I struggled to do so because it felt like an admission of defeat.

That I wasn’t strong enough to beat this on my own.

It is totally foolish I know.

But I just felt so fragile these last few weeks.

Running out of breath doing the simplest tasks.

Coughing in the most inopportune times.

Having no energy to keep up with all of the todos this time of year. Feeling generally inadequate across the board.

And suddenly that fragility was coloring even my own perspective on these readings.

For I read that second reading and I realized that my own hope was feeling as fragile as my body.

The constant news stories of war and collateral damage and casualty counts. And all I could picture is the mother holding her child beside the rubble of her home in Gaza. Or the bodies of teenage girls laid outside a school building. Or my graduate stationed at one of the bases in the midst of this warzone, unsure if he will ever come home.

The constant news stories of corruption and greed. How we exploit the poor, the laborer, the migrant, the marginalized, the environment. So that wealth and power continue to accumulate in the hands who already have so much. And all I keep doing is standing in these dark spaces. Listening to families grappling with a loved one in ICE custody. Listening to desperate pleas for financial assistance. As there is not enough to go around but they simply want their kid to have a normal high school career.

How do we not despair? How do we not give up that anything will change?

And then I reread that reading.

And I realized that I was misunderstanding that hope that we were supposed to claim.

For the hope of St. Paul is not some fragile wish for the future that we toss into the sky.

It is a hope rooted in a person. The Risen Christ.

A person who knew exactly how dark this world could get.

A person whose death on the cross seemed to mark the end. The defeat. The final triumph of every force of darkness. Violence. Power. Corruption. Fear.

Except it wasn’t.

The light that cannot be contained shattered the darkness. And forged a community.

A community that would know darkness. But would choose to be light.

A community that would know death. But would choose to be life.

A community that would know fear. But would choose courage.

A community that would know division. But would choose each other.

A community that would know hate. But would choose to love.

My friends, we are that community.

This is the hope that we have inherited. The hope that sends us out into this world, ready to defy all of the forces of darkness that seem to always have the upperhand. That seem to win. Again and again and again.

Because we know how this story ends. With Resurrection. With light. With life. With love.

So be the light.

Gift life.

Be not afraid.

Stand with each other, especially those most vulnerable in this moment.

Keep the faith. Stay strong.

And love one another as we have been loved.

May God be Praised.

05/04/2026

5th Sunday of Easter

I have been thinking a lot about how May 1st has become quite a day for high school seniors.

College decision day. Complete with all of the requisite photo ops, social media posts, and college gear opportunities.

And maybe this is simply my faulty memory, but I do not recall that day being such a big deal for me all those years ago. Now, in fairness, it might have been a bigger deal to my mother. Or it could have been the fact that I was convinced I had all the answers about my future by around December.

For if you had asked me on May 1st, 2003 where I was going. I would have given you my 10 year plan.

Graduate from DeSales University.

Get my teaching license as a high school social studies teacher.

Go back to my Alma Mater and teach high school history.

It was all so straightforward. So simple to me.

I had the vision of the place that was prepared for me. And I was convinced I knew the path that would get me there.

This all feels so comical to me now.

Because the place I have arrived at looks so different than the place I once thought was prepared for me. Somehow being an Oblate priest with a social work degree working in Wilmington was not on my life’s bingo card.

And heaven knows the path that has gotten me there is completely different than the one I had diligently prepped for. The path I had envisioned was so straightforward. The one I’ve lived has been so much more complicated. With climbs and descents. Parts that have been shrouded in darkness. And parts with views that have taken my breath away. And some parts that went in circles, doubling back and forth.

It is maybe why I have so much respect for Thomas today.

Because he dared to ask the question. Where am I going? And how do I get there if I don’t know what you are preparing for me? And he was humble enough to not feel certain that he already had the answers.

If we are honest, aren’t these the questions that most of us keep asking throughout our lives?

Where are you leading me Lord?

What is this place that you have brought me to? I’m not sure I bargained for this one.

How do I know I am in the right spot? Are you sure this is the right move?

What am I doing with my life? Is this right?

And in response, Jesus gives the answer that I am only now beginning to understand.

That classic line. I am the way, the truth, and the life.

I am beginning to realize that the way each of us must follow to arrive at the places prepared for us.

Is the way each of us learns how to Live Jesus.

The way each of us learns how to embody the qualities that Jesus modeled for us.

The humility and gentleness.

The patience, the compassion, the tenacity.

The optimism and gratitude.

The way each of us learns to take the teachings of Jesus and bring them to bear on our own lives.

How we learn to forgive as we have been forgiven.

How we choose to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, welcome the stranger, and care for the sick.

How we turn the other cheek, how we hunger and thirst for righteousness, how we become peacemakers.

How we love one another as we have been loved.

And as we do so, we suddenly see where Christ is leading us. What he has prepared for us.

The place where we can be the hands, the feet, the face of Christ.

The place where we can build the kingdom of God.

My friends, this path each of us is on. The place prepared for each of us.

It is shaped by how we become like Christ.

And it is a path that we do not take alone.

Look around you. See the face of Christ who has accompanied you this far.

The mothers, grandmothers, sisters, aunts.

The sons, grandsons, nephews, brothers.

The friends, classmates, teammates, colleagues, parishioners

Who have lived Jesus. Who are living Jesus. Who are showing you the way.

Do not let your hearts be troubled.

There is a place prepared for each of you. And trust me, you know the way.

May God be Praised.

04/26/2026

4th Sunday of Easter

So I have a confession to make.

I have never been able to figure out child gates.

I will stare at the latch or the lock, try to figure it out, give up quickly and then proceed to try and climb over it.

This never ends well.

I either end up straddling the fence, awkwardly perched on both sides. Or I try leaping over, with disastrous results.

Now, I get why these gates exist.

We want to try and keep kids safe. Prevent them from tumbling down steps or wandering into parts of the house without our knowledge.

But I’m just not a fan.

Now I get it. Gates may be difficult to get through, but that is their job. They are designed to keep us safe. To keep us out of danger. To keep us safe and contained.

In fact, It is how I used to understand this image in the Gospel.

Jesus is the gatekeeper. Keeping it firmly locked against the scary world outside.

Safely guarding the precious flock of which I was a member.

But then I re-read the Gospel and realized that is not what happens. That is not how the gate works.

Jesus opens the gate and leads the sheep outside into the world.

The goal is not for the sheep to remain in seclusion, separate from the world and its challenges.

On the contrary, the sheep are supposed to listen to the shepherd, calling them into new pastures. Calling them into the unknown where they belong.

My friends, our Church has far too often viewed itself as the flock hiding behind the gate. We have looked at the challenges beyond the fence and gone . . . that is not my problem.

We have looked at the wars that are raging.

We have looked at the corruption. The hypocrisy.

We have looked at the poverty. The homelessness. The hunger and thirst.

We have looked at the racism. And sexism.

We have looked at the way our nation treats immigrants.

We have looked at the way we exploit the environment.

And all too often, we have tried to turn away. To stay focused on our little slice of the field, safely cut off from the world and its brokenness and pain.

But today we are reminded that we have a shepherd who walks into it all. Inviting us to follow.

A shepherd whose voice calls us to enter these pastures.

Where our flock encounters sheep who have been on so many different journeys.

We see their wounds.

We hear their cries.

We feel their trembling. Their fear.

And we stand in solidarity with them.

For that is where our shepherd is.

I know there are so many voices trying to lead each of us astray.

There have always been those who claim to speak for the shepherd, but whose words betray them. Who preach a message of war and violence, of retribution and vengeance, of hatred and division.

But we have one shepherd. One voice that rings out with a message woven throughout the Scriptures.

A voice that declares . . . Blessed are the peacemakers.

Blessed are the merciful.

Blessed are they who mourn.

Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness.

Your sins are forgiven. Rise, take up your mat and go home.

Be opened. Come forth.

Love one another as I have loved you.

This is the shepherd we follow. This is the Gospel we claim.

For if the Lord is our shepherd, there is truly nothing we shall want.

May God be Praised.

04/19/2026

3rd Sunday of Easter

And they recognized him in the breaking of the bread. . .

This is one statement of Scripture that has always made sense to me.

Because meals have always been a place where I have encountered love, where I have encountered God.

I think of how many hours of my family life were spent in kitchens or around dining room tables.

Plates piled high with homemade crab cakes or lasagna, cream of crab soup or new england clam chowder, burgers off the grill or sugar cookies that we had decorated for the holiday earlier in the week.

Boisterous conversation filled with laughter and passionate debates. Kids in high chairs dropping food for the dogs, friends of the family squeezed in around the table. Food passed around for seconds and thirds. Drinks knocked over. Piles of dishes stacked in the sink knowing that someone will eventually need to clean it up.

Every major moment of life has been marked with food that is shared. Birthday parties and wedding receptions. 1st communion celebrations and funeral repasts. Retirements. Graduations. Baby Showers. All of it marked with bread broken between family, between friends.

It is at meals where I have been seen. Where I have vented out my anger, cried out my grief, figured out the big questions of my life, wrestled with difficult choices, and simply basked in the truth that I was loved.

And it is at meals where I can’t help but see Christ in the face of the one I am breaking bread with.

There is just such an intimacy to sharing a meal.

Which is why it just makes sense that it would be a meal that would help the disciples to recognize Christ in their midst.

Even though they had been walking and journeying and talking for miles. It was not until the meal that they finally got it.

It would be in a meal that they found healing from their pain.

It would be in a meal that they found the strength to face their fear.

It would be in a meal that they found hope.

And it would be a meal that gave them what they needed to go back into Jerusalem. To head back to the fire. And be who the world needed them to be.

My friends, we are living through a time in which it is getting harder and harder to see Christ in the other.

And I wonder if part of the problem is we aren’t breaking bread together.

We are not sitting around the table with those who are different from us, those we disagree with. We are not refueling with those who are striving to do the same work.

Yes, we can talk a lot. We can post and post and post. We can mark out our positions and shout them into the void.

But I’m not sure it is working.

But I wonder if we return to the power of breaking bread that we may just encounter the Christ that we celebrate, the Christ that we seek.

If we made the point of making that dinner with the family member who we are estranged with, or we know is struggling or who we just don’t understand.

If we made the effort to sit at the table with the classmate who moves in a different circle, the colleague who votes differently than I do, the neighbor who moved in and whose culture is not our own.

If we offered to share the cup of coffee and pastry with those on the proverbial other side. If we grabbed late night snacks with the ones who are trying to do the work with us but are tired, worn, preparing to give up.

If we remembered that each of us are people shaped by a common table. Each of us has been made by bread that is broken, wine that is shared.

Then we too might encounter Christ anew.

Then we too might reveal the face of Christ to a world desperately seeking it.

May God be Praised.

03/30/2026

Palm Sunday

Earlier this week, I got the terrible news that another one of my former Nativity students, Ryan Evans, had been killed by gun violence.

It started with the texts asking if I had heard anything.

Then the phone calls confirming the news.

And then having to make call after call, knowing with each call that I was shattering the silence of their evening.

It didn’t help that I was doing all of this while in the airport, heading to a national conference of school social workers. Holding back tears as I paced outside of the gate as my flight was delayed again and again.

For the remainder of the week, my head and heart felt split between two places. One in St. Louis listening to sessions, trying to improve my craft. And the other, on a street corner in Wilmington. The pain palpably pulsing through my chest.

But in the final keynote address. Both were pulled back together. As the speaker powerfully spoke to the necessity of the work we were doing in this present moment when the stakes were so high.

He thundered from his podium. Our children are dying. Violence is rampant.

What are we doing about it?

Questions that feel echoed in this most famous of Gospel texts.

For violence is rampant throughout Matthew’s account . . .

Swords are slicing off ears.

Judas is ending his life.

Two thieves are crucified.

And Jesus is scourged, paraded through the streets and then crucified after the agonizing journey.

And each member of our Passion narrative is confronted with that same question . . . what are you doing about it?

The responses run the gamut don’t they.

Some choose to meet the violence of the moment with more violence. The disciples in the garden fueling a cycle that leaves more blood in the streets, more lives broken in its wake.

Some choose to deny. Peter pretending that he does not see. Is not involved.

Some blame the victims for the violence that is brought upon them. The pharisees and crowds claiming that if they had made different choices. If they had walked a different path. They wouldn’t be in this moment.

And then some intervene. Simon. The women at the foot of the cross. Who stop the cycle. Who see the humanity of the one who suffers. Who bear witness to the violence being done.

My friends, we are currently living through our own Passion Narrative.

For violence is still rampant among us. And our children, our sisters and brothers are surely dying.

So what are we doing about it?

Are we tempted to meet the moment with violence of our own? Arming ourselves to the teeth to fend off the shadows at the door.

Are we closing our eyes? Overwhelmed. Feeling powerless to make any change. Numbing ourselves with Tiktok, ma*****na, and work deadlines.

Are we rationalizing it all away? Blaming the victims for their own misfortune. Silently grateful that it isn’t me. My family. My friend. My neighbor

Or are we stepping into the arena? Bearing witness to the pain and violence we see and the future we believe we can create.

Speaking truth out of love. Standing up to all principalities and powers that dare to claim that might is right, that violence is divinely sanctioned

Standing with the crucified. Letting their pain break our hearts.

Looking at the systems that do so much violence to those least able to bear it and declaring, there is another way. We can build better systems than the ones we have inherited.

Holding those whose hearts have been broken. Letting our love be the streams of healing pouring over them in their darkest hours.
The choice is ours. May we make it in remembrance of him.

May God be Praised.

03/23/2026

5th Sunday of Lent

Several years ago, I had the opportunity to visit Israel and Palestine. To immerse myself in the places that I have pictured since I was a child.

The manger in Bethlehem.

The hill of Gologatha.

The shores of the Sea of Galilee.

But one location that I had never thought much about visiting was the tomb of Lazarus.

Until we arrived and were asked if we wanted to go inside.

Ok, I am not typically a claustrophobic person. Nor do I mind the dark.

But inside that tomb. I was definitely minding both.

It felt suffocating. Constricting.

I just wanted to get out of there as fast as I could.

I remember stepping back outside into the blazing sun. So disoriented. Trying to breathe deeply and calm my racing heart.

And then I remember thinking, how did Lazarus do this? How did he come out from this tomb?

Waking up having no awareness of where he is. Bound head to foot in cloth. Plunged into total darkness.

And yet, he keeps hearing this invitation from one who loved him deeply.

Come out.

And so he does. Somehow, he manages to climb out of the darkness and into the glorious light.

I so often think of how deeply metaphoric this passage is for each of us.

For if we go around the sun enough times, each of us has been in that dark place.

That place where we feel plunged in darkness. Bound by the circumstances of our lives. Feeling like we will never get out. We will never be set free.

We label the darkness different things.
Anxiety. Depression.

Grief. Loss. Dying.

Guilt. Shame.

Addiction.

Rejection. Failure. Abandonment. Abuse.

And it is so natural to stand like Martha and gaze accusingly at the sky going, if you had been here.

If you had been here, I wouldn’t need to be here in this dark place.

If you had been here, I wouldn’t need to be in so much pain.

If you had been here, I would have been ok.

And yet, in response, we hear the clear call. Come out.

The voice of liberation.

The voice of healing.

The voice of hope.

The voice of love.

The voices that are uttered by so many who become the face of Christ to us.

The therapist. The doctor. The nurse.

Our parent. Child. Spouse.

Our best friend. Our neighbor. Our co-worker.

Come out, they cry. For we were not meant to live in tombs. We are meant for life, life in abundance.

And so my friends, wherever you are this night, you have a role to play.

If you are in the tomb, listen to the voices calling you out. Trusting that they may come from the unlikeliest of places. From the unlikeliest of people.
And if you are standing outside, soaking in the sun, start calling out your sister or brother who remains bound all around you.

Roll away the stones. Untie the cords that bind them.

Be the voice of life they need this day.

May God be Praised

Delaware Koinonia

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