When car alarms were first invented, they did exactly what they were meant to do. The moment one went off, people stopped walking. Heads turned. Windows opened. Neighbors rushed outside asking, “Whose car is that? What is happening?” The sound demanded attention. It disrupted normal life. But listen to a car alarm today. It screams. It wails. It pleads, and no one looks up. People keep walking. Conversations continue. Children play through it. Some even roll their eyes and say, “That thing again.” The sound has not changed. What has changed is us. Our ears have learned how to ignore it.
That discovery is scary, because it explains something deeper: how a life-saving message can be present and still unheard. It says something deep about the human heart, and about our relationship with the Word of God. The Word is still sounding. It has not gone silent. It still calls, challenges, consoles, and exposes. But many no longer stop when they hear it. Not because the Word is weak, but because familiarity has trained us to tune it out.
That is why today’s liturgy matters in a special way. The Church gives us not only the Third Sunday in Ordinary Time, but also the Sunday of the Word of God, with this year’s theme: “The word of Christ dwells among you.” The Word is not distant. It is not lost. It dwells among us. Yet dwelling does not mean forcing. The Word waits to be welcomed, heard, and obeyed.
The First Reading from Isaiah speaks to people who had lived in darkness for so long that darkness felt normal. Fear, oppression, and confusion became familiar. Into that darkness, God speaks a Word of promise: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” Not because they discovered it, but because God sent it. The Word breaks in where people have learned to live with shadows. That is what God’s Word does; it interrupts darkness decisively.
The Psalm responds with confidence: “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?” When the Word is truly heard, fear loosens its grip. Waiting prayerfully replaces panic. Hope keeps the heart steady. The Word does not merely inform us; it forms us.
Saint Paul, in the second reading, exposes another danger, not darkness from outside, but noise from within. Writing to the Corinthians, he describes a divided Church. Too many voices. Too many loyalties. “I belong to Paul.” “I belong to Apollos.” “I belong to Cephas.” Everyone speaking, no one listening. And Paul cuts through the noise with one question: “Is Christ divided?” Division is often a sign that the Word is no longer at the center. When the Word of Christ stops dwelling richly among a people, the cults of personalities replace truth and unity fractures. Paul reminds them, and us, that the Word is not one voice among many. It is the voice that gathers all others into one body.
Then comes the Gospel where Matthew tells us that Jesus begins his ministry not in Jerusalem, not among the powerful, but in Galilee, an overlooked place associated with mixture and marginalization. Matthew deliberately connects this moment to Isaiah’s prophecy: light shining in darkness. Jesus does not begin with explanations. He begins with a Word: “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.” This is not background noise. This is an alarm. God is acting now. Then Jesus steps into ordinary life; men fishing, doing what they have always done, and speaks again: “Come follow me.” And Matthew tells us, “At once they left their nets and followed him.” They do not ask for a schedule. They do not ask for guarantees. They respond because the Word has pierced them. It does not just dwell near them; it dwells in them and moves them.
That is the heart of today’s celebration. Not whether the Word is present, but whether it is allowed to dwell richly within us. A Word that truly dwells is not a visitor. It rearranges the house. It reshapes priorities. It redirects decisions. It does not remain decorative; it becomes directive. This is why the Church insists we renew our sensitivity to the Word. Because once we hear without responding, we drift toward spiritual numbness. The Word becomes like the car alarm, still urgent, still calling, but increasingly ignored.
The Sunday of the Word of God is not about adding another devotion. It is about recovering attentiveness. Training our ears and hearts to stop when God speaks. Allowing the Word to interrupt routines, challenge divisions, and call us from darkness into light. The same Word that called fishermen still calls today. The same Word that healed divisions still unites. The same Word that once dwelt among us in flesh still dwells among us; proclaimed in Scripture; celebrated in Sacrament, and in lives shaped by faith.
So how do we resharpen our attentiveness to the Word? We do so by forming faithful habits. Give the Word the first sound of your day before other voices rush in; even one Gospel verse, read slowly. When Scripture is proclaimed at Mass, resist the urge to judge or analyze it; instead ask, “What is this asking of me today?” Carry one line into your day and let it confront your choices, your conversations, and your reactions.
Remember, the danger today is not rejection of the Word. The danger is indifference to it. May this Sunday retrain our ears, reawaken our hearts, and help us hear again what has been calling us all along, through Christ our Lord. Amen.
Homily for 3rd Sunday in Ordinary Time Year A 2026
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