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Think about how often we forget things – whether it’s something small like our keys or a person’s name, or something bigger like an anniversary. 

I’ll be the first to admit, I can be terribly forgetful.

Growing up, the one thing I’d sometimes forget was my homework. More often than not, it wasn’t that I forgot to bring it to school; I simply forgot to do it.

I still remember the moment my teacher would go around collecting it. I’d have that sinking feeling in my stomach – like, “uh-oh.”  

Even though I knew I didn’t have it, I’d still bend over the edge of my seat and give my backpack a good shake, as if it’d magically fall out.

Meanwhile, I’d be preparing a thousand excuses as to why I didn’t have it, as if my teacher would believe me. 

“My dog ate it!… I left it on the counter!… Somebody stole it!”

It never worked. It was only my fault. Some days, I was simply unprepared.

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It’s that sinking feeling of being unprepared that Jesus warns us about in today’s Gospel. 

He’s finally reached the end of his public ministry. And before he hands himself over to death, he answers one of his disciples’ most pressing questions, “When is the world going to end?”

“As it was in the days of Noah, so it will be at the coming of the Son of Man,” Jesus says. “In those days, they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, up to the day Noah entered the ark.”

Life seemed normal. Then the flood came.

In other words, we know neither the day nor the hour of Christ’s return. We must live each day in a state of anticipation.

This doesn’t mean living in fear or anxiety; rather the opposite. We must be at peace – with ourselves and with one another, which sometimes demands the hard work of reconciliation.

We who live in a constant state of readiness – of peace – shall rejoice when the Lord returns.

But those who are unprepared – those whose hearts are filled with darkness, lust, and jealousy as Saint Paul says in our second reading – will have that sinking feeling in their stomach…

…like trying to make homework fall magically out of an empty backpack.

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Have we done our homework? If Christ were to return now, would we be ready to meet him?

Or is our backpack empty, so to speak?

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There’s no doubt that these remaining weeks leading up to Christmas will be filled with their share of anxiety: shopping, decorating, cooking, and card writing.

But if we don’t enter into some level of silence and reflect upon our relationship with Christ, then we’ve missed the whole point of Advent, which is intended to be a time of spiritual reflection.

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Perhaps, then, we should consider two points.

Just as I could not do my homework the moment it was being collected, so we cannot grow in our relationship with Christ at the moment of his return.

We must do it now. Advent is here.

Secondly, just as I couldn’t borrow a friend’s homework, so we cannot borrow someone else’s relationship with God. We each have our own. That’s what we’re held accountable to.

So how can I deepen my own relationship with the Lord this Advent?

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In the midst of the commercial craze of Christmas, Advent reminds us to slow down, enter into the silence, and examine our own spiritual lives, considering things like:

“Where is the light at work in me? And where is there darkness taking over?”

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We know neither the day nor the hour, but the world will come to an end. When Christ returns, all that will matter is whether or not we’re prepared.

Let’s do our homework. 

Come, Lord Jesus.

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Before I was ordained a priest, I taught 3^rd grade in Newark through a program called Teach for America. Though they were certainly challenging years, I was honored to teach the future of our nation.

Even here at Saint Catherine’s, I have the privilege of teaching our pre-k through 8^th grade students once a week.

With every class, I often wonder:

“What will they make of their lives? Will one of them cure cancer? Will any of them get caught in the opioid crisis? Will they marry the right person? Will they find a share of human happiness?”

Most importantly, “Will they keep the faith that’s been handed on to them?”

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That, in the end, makes all the difference. Faith – or a lack of it – shapes who we become.

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In the Gospel, we encounter three men on the very last day – the last page – of their lives. Two of them are nameless thieves – and one is Jesus himself.

We know nothing about the two thieves, only that Rome judged them worthy of death. 

There was no welcome place left for them in this world, only a wooden cross and crowd of bystanders who mocked them as they breathed their last.

It’s humbling to imagine that these thieves were once innocent children, much like the children I teach today. 

Why are they hanging there? Where are their parents? Do they have any children, anyone who loves them? Will they be missed? What brought them to that dark and dreary place?

As with all of us: decisions.

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Decisions.

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As the saying goes, “We make decisions all the time. Then these decisions make us the people we are.” 

For example, many of us decide where we want to go to high school or college, whom we want to marry, what job we want, and whether or not we want to believe.

We also make small decisions – how we eat, how we care for our bodies, how we guard against addiction, the friends we choose, and so on.

In the case of the two thieves, a series of poor decisions led them down the path of self-destruction. Perhaps they cut corners, took the easy way out, justified stealing, or lied instead of being honest. 

Small decisions that lead to bigger ones.

Like us, they charted their own destiny. Their decisions made them who they are – criminals crucified on a cross.

But before they breathe their last, they have one more decision to make on this final page of their lives: to believe in Jesus or not. 

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It’s a decision we all must make.

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One of them does. Tradition says his name was Dismas.

Interestingly enough, this repentant thief is the only person in Luke’s Gospel to call Jesus by name. In perhaps his only act of faith, Dismas cries out:

“Jesus, remember me – a man who’s made mistakes, a man in need of mercy – remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

Dismas believed that sign written over Jesus’ head – “Jesus of Nazareth, king of the Jews.” He believed Jesus had a kingdom – and he hoped to be part of it.

Jesus’ response becomes, perhaps, the most remarkable words spoken in all of the Gospels. “Today you will be with me in paradise.”

Even as he dies, Jesus doesn’t think about himself; he thinks about the needs of others. A final decision reminding us of Jesus’ inexhaustible mercy.

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Over the next several weeks, you and I will gather with family and friends for the holidays. There will be stressful moments, to be sure, but hopefully they’ll be days filled with joy.

During these days, you and I will make dozens of decisions.

Will I let go of that grudge I’ve been nursing since last Thanksgiving? Will I be greedy? Will I put the phone down? Will I speak kindly about everyone in my family? 

And most importantly, will I – will we as a family – remember the Lord in the midst of the holiday chaos?

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Our decisions will define us.

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Like those thieves, we were all children once. And the thousands of decisions we’ve made over the years – both big and small – have defined who are.

But Dismas, the repentant thief in today’s Gospel, reminds us that the most important decision we’ll ever make is whether or not to believe in Jesus. 

A decision that’s sometimes made day by day, minute by minute.

In Dismas’ case, he was in the kingdom of God before the ink dried on that final page of his life.

May the same be true for us. 

“Jesus, remember me – remember us – when you come into your kingdom.”

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Jesus “drove out” the money changers from the temple.

This verb “to drive out” – ekballo – is the same verb used to describe the exorcism of demons.

In other words, these money changers are like unclean spirits, profaning the house of God.

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Notice the symbolism here. Both good and evil are at work in the temple.

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Unfortunately, that’s true everywhere in the world – good and evil intermingle in governments, workplaces, even houses of worship.

As one Russian novelist put it, “If only it were so easy. But the dividing line between good and evil cuts through every human heart. And who wants to destroy a piece of his own heart?”

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As we prepare for Advent – the coming of our Lord into our world – perhaps we should consider those areas in our lives where we need Jesus to cast something unclean out of us.

Whether it’s a particular habit, a temptation, an attitude, or a residual grudge.  As one person said, “The greatest sin is thinking I have none.”

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Just as Jesus drove the money changers out of the temple – so he has the power to drive out whatever is unclean in us.

The best way for him to do that is through confession.

When was the last time I went? Do I believe I’ve outgrown the sacrament? Or will I go before he comes again?