Homilies for November 2025

For All Saints’ Day, All Souls’ Day, the Feast of the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica (Nov. 9), November 16 (Thirty-third Sunday in Ordinary Time), the Solemnity of Christ the King, Thanksgiving Day, and the First Sunday of Advent

Solemnity of All Saints – November 1, 2025

Readings: Revelation 7:2–4, 9–14 • Psalm 24:1bc–2, 3–4ab, 5–6 • 1 John 3:1–3 • Matthew 5:1–12a
bible.usccb.org/bible/readings/110125.cfm

In the first reading from the Book of Revelation, St. John offers us a breathtaking vision of heaven: “a great multitude, which no one could count, from every nation, race, people, and tongue.” This vast assembly of the redeemed stands before God’s throne and before the Lamb, proclaiming with one voice, “Salvation comes from our God, who is seated on the throne, and from the Lamb.” It is a magnificent image of the saints lost in adoration of God.

What stands out, though, is not only that the saints are gathered before the Lord, but that they are gathered with one another. Our Catholic faith reminds us that heaven is not the lonely soul in isolation with God for all eternity, but a communion — a holy company bound together in joy. St. Catherine of Siena, the great 14th-century mystic, captured this beautifully when she wrote that the saints “rejoice sharing each other’s goodness with loving affection. For when a soul reaches eternal life, all share in her good and she shares in theirs.”

The joy of heaven is not only the vision of God, but the discovery of the astonishing variety of goodness God’s grace has worked in each human life: the mother marvels at the martyr’s courage, the martyr delights in the mother’s patience; the priest rejoices in the scholar’s wisdom, and the scholar treasures the priest’s prudence. In heaven, the saints bring with them the unique graces God has given each, and then they share those treasures freely so that all may rejoice in one another’s holiness.

This vision of a countless multitude around the throne of the Lamb reminds us, on the feast of All Saints, that any of us could belong to that great number. Today’s celebration is not only about a distant crowd of holy men and women; it is also about us. As the second reading proclaims, “we are already the children of God,” and one day “we shall be like him.” Each of us is called to sainthood. God’s desire is that we be shaped into the likeness of his Son. For many, this will be completed only in eternal life, when — as St. Paul says — Christ will “transform our lowly body to be like his glorious body.” But even now, through baptism, we are God’s children, and the journey to that final transformation has already begun. The path to sainthood starts here, wherever we are.

In today’s Gospel from St. Matthew, Jesus himself describes that path. In the Beatitudes, he gives us not only a portrait of the true disciple but a portrait of himself, the Holy One of God. They reveal different dimensions of who Jesus is, and at the same time point to the many ways we can mirror his life in our own. Each of us may find one beatitude that speaks to us more deeply than the others; that may be the place where our own call to holiness takes root. But wherever we find ourselves within them, the Beatitudes invite us to walk the road of discipleship that leads to sainthood. For we are all on the way to being remade fully in the image and likeness of Christ.

All Souls’ Day – November 2, 2025

Readings: Wisdom 3:1–9 • Psalm 23:1–3a, 3b–4, 5, 6 • Romans 5:5–11 or Romans 6:3–9• John 6:37–40
bible.usccb.org/bible/readings/110225.cfm

The death of a loved one is always difficult; a parent having to bury a child may represent the worst kind of loss any human might face. Sadly, my paternal grandparents had to bury two of their children. My aunts, who were twins, both died quite young — one in her late 40s and the other in her mid-50s. After the first aunt died, my grandparents would drive every Sunday to the cemetery about twenty miles away to pray at her grave. While there, they also visited other relatives. They continued this weekly visit into their late 80s, stopping only when my grandfather gave up driving. Then my dad would take them, though less often.

Why did my grandparents do this? To many people today it may sound old-fashioned. But after suffering loss, such devotion makes sense. My Italian-immigrant grandparents were Catholic to their core and believed with all their heart that they remained connected to their daughters and to all they knew and loved in this life. Though no longer physically present, the bonds of communion remained. And we need to do things to remain close to those we love, even those who have died, including praying for them.

This belief that we remain connected even in death goes back to the earliest days of Christianity. Burial chambers from as early as the second century bear graffiti with prayers for the dead and hopes of reunion. By the Middle Ages the practice had intensified in the monasteries of Europe, where death was immediately marked in prayer, especially in daily Mass. In such tight-knit communities where prayer was such a central part of daily life, the death of someone was immediately marked in prayer, especially in the daily Masses of the priest-monks. Soon lay people sought these prayers too, and the tradition of praying for the dead became woven into Catholic life — at home and in the liturgy.

Over time the practice was somewhat corrupted, especially when linked to fees for Masses. By the sixteenth century Protestant reformers, rightly upset with abuses, questioned and then rejected completely praying for the dead. In doing so they unintentionally cut the living off from the dead. The reformers said praying for the dead had no warrant in scripture. But unintentionally they drove a wedge between the living and the dead: the saints did not pray for us and we could do nothing for them. In effect, the dead were cut off from the great web of mutual love and support which was the Church. And in practice, the reformed doctrine struck the Church dumb at the graveside of sinners.

All of this history and theology has often been written about by the great Catholic historian who taught for many years at Cambridge, Eamon Duffy. He writes that the reformed Protestant funeral rites, like in the Anglican Book of Common Prayer, rejoiced at the graveside that this Christian had died “in the sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life.” But how could such confidence be spoken at the graveside of a murderer, a child abuser, a defrauder of the poor — or just the merely mediocre? There was a gulf in human experience between the hope which the Gospel holds out for us all and the reality of our lives which so often are imperfect and incomplete. Conscientious Protestant clergy, worried by the apparent lies they had to utter when burying notorious sinners, often selectively refused to speak the sentence about the “sure and certain hope” — and outraged relatives protested this. With a deeper wisdom, the Catholic Church from time immemorial insisted at every graveside, whether of saint or sinner, we offer the same prayer: “Lord, have mercy.” In that prayer the Church has always expressed neither fear nor exaggerated self-confidence, but rather faith and hope in the God who can bring meaning out of horror and who loves even the unlovely.

And that little prayer is filled with hope. It does not presume too much about the one who has died, nor does it give in to despair. Instead, it hands the departed into the loving mercy of God, who alone knows the secrets of every heart. For my grandparents, those Sunday visits were really just extensions of this prayer. Their presence at the graveside was their way of saying “Lord, have mercy” again and again.

Why prayer for the dead? Because death leaves unfinished business — damaged relationships, apologies unsaid, forgiveness needed. In prayer we help the dead fall completely into Christ’s arms. Dante imagined purgatory as a place of healing, where the knots of sin are undone. Our prayers accompany that work of love.

And our prayers do something for us, too. They help us to forgive, to let go of grudges, to soften the memory of old hurts. Prayer for the dead brings healing not only to those who have gone before us, but also to the living who carry the weight of memory. In that sense, this ancient practice continues to be profoundly relevant today.

Praying for the dead bridges the separation of the grave. In Christ the loneliness of death is overcome. Salvation is not complete until it is complete for all. This November, may we pray for those who have died, forgiving them, and in doing so find healing for ourselves.

Dedication of the Lateran Basilica – November 9, 2025

Readings: Ezekiel 47:1–2, 8–9, 12 • Psalm 46:2–3, 5–6, 8–9 • 1 Corinthians 3:9c–11, 16–17 • John 2:13–22
bible.usccb.org/bible/readings/110925.cfm

Why are we celebrating the anniversary of the dedication of a church most of us will never visit? And why this particular church in Rome, rather than St. Peter’s Basilica, which is far more familiar?

The answer takes us deep into the mystery of what it means to be members of the Church. The Basilica of St. John Lateran, dedicated in 324 A.D. after Emperor Constantine legalized Christianity, is the cathedral of the Bishop of Rome. That means it is the Pope’s own parish church. It is, in a real sense, the “mother church” of all Catholic churches throughout the world. So when we celebrate the dedication of this church, we are not honoring just an ancient piece of architecture, but a living symbol of our identity and unity as Catholics.

We know instinctively that buildings mean more than shelter. When the British army burned the White House in 1814, they weren’t just trying to deny James and Dolley Madison a place to sleep. They wanted to humiliate a nation by striking at its most visible symbol of democracy. Or think of Berlin’s Reichstag, rebuilt in the late 1990s after German reunification with a giant glass dome, deliberately transparent so that citizens could “see in” — a statement about accountability and trust given the nation’s dark history during World War II.

Buildings embody values. They communicate who we are and how we want to be seen. That is also true for a church building. The Lateran Basilica does not exist for the sake of bricks and mortar. It proclaims what we believe about ourselves as members of the Body of Christ led by the Holy Father, and how we want the world to see us: united, rooted in the Gospel, and as pilgrim people heading to our heavenly homeland.

Of course, the Church is not reducible to its buildings. The baptized are not identical with the structures where we gather. Think of the early Christians, worshiping in house churches or even underground catacombs. Think of our brothers and sisters today who, because of persecution, have to celebrate Mass in secret, in barns, in refugee camps, or in prison cells. They are no less Church than those who gather under the soaring arches of a cathedral.

And yet having a sacred space matters. A physical church provides a place of encounter. It creates an environment that shapes us, that tells us: here, you belong to God, and God is with you and God is calling you to a higher place, to His very self.

I think of walking into our parish church on an ordinary weekday morning and seeing a handful of people scattered in the pews. Some are deep in prayer, others sit quietly with burdens they cannot quite name. At midday, penitents line up for confession, seeking mercy. Multiply those moments by decades and centuries, and you glimpse what Ezekiel describes in today’s first reading: a temple overflowing with living water, where people come to drink deeply of God’s grace.

That is why Jesus was so passionate about cleansing the temple. In the Gospel, he drives out the money changers because they had turned a holy place into a marketplace. For Jesus, the temple was not about profit or prestige; it was a meeting place between God and humanity. Our churches must always remain faithful to that purpose. Every parish, every chapel, every cathedral — from St. John Lateran to our own local parish — is called to be a house of prayer, a fountain of living water, a place where God’s mercy and grace are offered and received.

But the Lateran Basilica reminds us of something more. It is a sign of the visible unity of the Catholic Church. As Roman Catholics, we are tied not only to our parish or diocese but to Rome itself, and through Rome to Catholics across the globe. That unity extends across time as well as space. Just last week, on All Saints Day and All Souls Day, we celebrated the invisible communion that binds the Church militant on earth, the Church suffering in purgatory, and the Church triumphant in heaven. Today’s feast complements that mystery by reminding us of the visible communion that binds us together: the sacraments, the apostolic faith, the leadership of the bishop of Rome, and the concrete structures that embody our unity.

St. Paul reminds us that we ourselves are “God’s building.” The Spirit dwells not only in cathedrals and basilicas but in the baptized. We are the living stones of God’s temple, being built together into a dwelling place for the Lord. That is why the feast of the Lateran Basilica is not about “somebody else’s church.” It is about us also.

In the Lateran’s ancient baptistery, an inscription reads: “There is no barrier between those who are reborn and made one by the one font, the one Spirit, and the one faith.” That unity is our deepest identity. To honor the Lateran Basilica is to recommit ourselves to being what that Church represents: one body in Christ, united around the Successor of St. Peter, and reconciled and renewed through the sacraments.

So what does this mean for us, practically? It means asking how we can help our parish be what it is meant to be: a house of prayer, a font of living water, a place where God dwells. For some, that means offering time or talent to support ministries. For others, it may mean maintaining the building, welcoming the stranger at the door, or teaching the faith to children. For all of us, it means praying here with open hearts and then carrying that spirit into the world.

The truth is, many Catholic churches here in the United States close their doors each year. That is a sobering reminder that churches do not maintain themselves. They require living stones — us — to keep them alive. If the Lateran Basilica is the “mother of all churches,” then our own parish church is a daughter in that same family. Both need care, both need prayer, both need commitment.

Today’s feast is not really about an old Roman basilica. It is about the mystery of the Church herself. It is about unity of all the baptized — across space, across time, across every imperfection. It is about making our parish a true fountain of living water, where Christ continues to meet his people. May God give us the grace to love his Church — in all her glory and all her flaws — and to build her up by our faith, our service, and our unity in Christ.

Thirty-third Sunday in Ordinary Time – November 16, 2025

Readings: Malachi 3:19–20a • Psalm 98:5–6, 7–8, 9 • 2 Thessalonians 3:7–12 • Luke 21:5–19
bible.usccb.org/bible/readings/111625.cfm

In today’s Gospel, Jesus tells his followers that they will face “powerful earthquakes, famines and plagues.” We could add hurricanes to that list. On September 8, 1900, a hurricane struck Galveston, Texas. It remains the deadliest natural disaster in American history. Close to 8,000 people lost their lives — one-sixth of the city’s population.

Among them were the Sisters of Charity of the Incarnate Word and the children in their care at St. Mary’s Orphanage. These Sisters had come to Texas in the 1860s, opened the state’s first Catholic hospital, and later expanded their ministry to include an orphanage for nearly one hundred children. The orphanage sat just three miles outside Galveston, near the beach.

When the storm came, the Sisters gathered the children together. As the waters rose, they calmed the little ones by singing an old French hymn, “Queen of the Waves.” Eventually the Sisters tied six or eight children to themselves with clothesline so none would be swept away. By evening, the buildings collapsed. Only three boys survived. Ninety children and all ten Sisters died, still tied together.

A year later, new Sisters rebuilt the orphanage, and even today, wherever they serve, they sing “Queen of the Waves” every September 8, remembering those who perished.

Now, did Jesus predict this particular hurricane? Well, not exactly, but in a real sense he did forewarn us: storms will come. And not only the storms of nature. Every one of us will be hit by storms in life. Some come later, some sooner, but none of us escapes them.

Think of the storms that strike close to home — betrayal, disappointment, loss. A loved one abandons us. A friend turns against us. A diagnosis changes everything. Life brings winds that batter and waves that threaten to undo us.

So what are we to do? How do we stand firm when the storm breaks?

Saint Paul offers practical wisdom in today’s second reading. Be faithful in the ordinary tasks of life. Work honestly. Honor your commitments. Stay steady in small things. My guess is the Sisters in Galveston lived like that before the hurricane — faithful day in and day out, not just in moments of drama. And because of that, when the storm hit, they stayed faithful to the end.

Jesus tells us the same: don’t panic, don’t give up. Remember who you are. Remember what matters. The Gospel never promises that if we follow Christ we will be spared from suffering. It does promise that if we stay faithful, we will not be lost. We will remain centered, even when everything else collapses.

And maybe that is our task when the storms start to buffet: do what those Sisters did. Tie ourselves fast to what matters. Above all, bind ourselves to Christ, who has already entered the storm of sin and death and conquered it by his Cross and Resurrection. We bind ourselves to him in prayer, in the Eucharist, in the grace of the sacraments that sustain us. And we bind ourselves to his Body, the Church, where we are never left alone. This is the rope God throws to us: Christ himself — given to us in the Word, in the Sacraments, and in the lives and examples of the saints. Hold fast to him, and even when the waves rise and the winds howl, we will not be overcome.

Solemnity of Christ the King – November 23, 2025

Readings: 2 Samuel 5:1 • Psalm 122:1–2, 3–4, 4–5 • Colossians 1:12–20 • Luke 23:35–43
bible.usccb.org/bible/readings/112325.cfm

Most of us entered this world the same way — crying out with all our strength. No one holds us accountable for those first cries. But what we say at the end of life — our last words — often reveal who we truly were and what we valued most.

History has preserved some striking examples. On her deathbed, Queen Elizabeth I of England is said to have whispered, “I would give all my possessions for just one more hour of life.” At the other extreme, Josef Stalin’s daughter recalled how, in his final moments, the dictator glared around the room with rage and terror, lifting his hand as though cursing the very death he could not command.

Final words can be windows into the soul. Elizabeth saw, too late, that all her wealth and power could not buy her even a breath more of life. Stalin’s end mirrored his reign — bitter, menacing, and devoid of peace.

By contrast, St. Luke tells us that Jesus, in his dying moments, spoke not words of fear or resentment, but of forgiveness: “Father, forgive them.” And finally, “Into your hands I commend my spirit.” His last words were not a desperate plea or a curse, but a final act of freedom and trust. They summed up the whole of his life: reconciling sinful humanity with his heavenly Father, bringing sinners home to God. Christ died as he had lived, and his last words were the perfect reflection of his mission.

And yet — a king? How does that make sense? Nothing about Jesus’ death looks regal. He was abandoned by nearly everyone. No court surrounded him, no guards protected him — only his mother, a few women, and one disciple remained. And yet the Church dares to call him King. Why? Because his kingship redefines power itself.

Christ’s reign is a complete reversal of what we expect from royalty. He had every right to call upon armies of angels, yet chose instead to empty himself. He disavowed violence, rejected revenge, and refused to cling to power. He came not to be served, but to serve. This is no king as the world imagines — this is a scandal, a stumbling block. And it has always been so. When Christians have marched to war or used Jesus as a pretext for coercion, they have betrayed the very King they claimed to follow.

To call Christ King is to learn a new way of seeing power. The cross is its symbol. It confronts us with a question: how do we use the power entrusted to us? To dominate? To enrich ourselves alone? Or to serve, to build up, to give life?

That question is not abstract. It comes to us every day. Parents exercise power in how they raise their children — whether with harshness or with patience, whether to control or to nurture. Teachers hold power over their students — do they use it to inspire, or to belittle? Employers wield authority over workers — do they seek only profit, or do they create an environment where human dignity is honored? Even in daily conversations, we have the power to wound with words or to heal with encouragement.

We can think, too, of quiet examples of Christlike kingship that seldom make the news: the adult child who cares for an aging parent with tenderness; the nurse who stays late to comfort a patient no one else visits; the neighbor who checks in on someone lonely or struggling. These are small acts of service, but they reflect the same truth: power becomes holy when it is given away in love.

And sometimes that call comes in very public ways. We see it when someone speaks up for justice at the risk of their reputation or career. We see it when a young person chooses service — whether in teaching, nursing, or community work — over the lure of easy wealth. We see it in those who use their influence not to build monuments to themselves, but to lift up the voiceless and forgotten. Such choices may not make headlines, but they echo the kingship of Christ more than any crown or throne ever could.

Finally, we are reminded that none of us is too small or too powerless to live this way. The kingdom of Christ is not built by the powerful of this world, but by ordinary disciples who choose daily acts of love. Every time we forgive when we could retaliate, every time we share when we could hoard, every time we welcome when we could exclude — we proclaim, in word and deed, that Christ is King. And when our last words are spoken, may they, like his, be words of trust and surrender: “Into your hands, Lord, I commend my spirit.”

Thanksgiving Day – November 27, 2025

Readings: Sirach 50:22–24 • Psalm 145:2–3, 4–5, 6–7, 8–9, 10–11 • 1 Corinthians 1:3–9 • Luke 17:11–19
bible.usccb.org/bible/readings/112725-Thanksgiving.cfm

As you may recall, it was President Abraham Lincoln who proclaimed the first official Thanksgiving Day in 1863. And how ironic it was in both who proclaimed this and when it happened. By far, Lincoln was the most religious of all our presidents. He had a Bible on his desk and read it every day. But he was not baptized a Christian. Yet it was this president, a member of no actual religious denomination, who thought it most important for his fellow Americans to set an entire day aside to thank God for the many blessings in their lives. And when did he do this? Right in the middle of the Civil War.

On October 3, 1863, Lincoln proclaimed a national Thanksgiving Day and assigned the final Thursday in November to be the day it would be observed. He did this three months after the Battle of Gettysburg, a battle during which, over the course of three days, more than 7,000 Americans died. Now, even one death is a tragedy, and thousands of dead on a battlefield in a matter of hours is a horror beyond words. Nevertheless, it is important to keep in mind the context of when Lincoln proclaimed the first official Thanksgiving. He did so in one of the darkest moments of our then young nation’s history and in the midst of a civil war whose end then seemed nowhere in sight.

But maybe when things are very dark, it is then that we ought most to take the time to give thanks. To recall that everything is a gift and that we really merit nothing but rather are here with the blessings and material comforts that we do have only because of a generous and beneficent God.

Think of the first Thanksgiving. Not when Lincoln proclaimed it in 1863 but when the pilgrims celebrated it at Plymouth Plantation in what would become Massachusetts in 1621. They gave thanks, yes, but their background for this was in many ways as dark as in 1863. It was said of the pilgrims that they dug seven times more graves than they built huts. Possibly no American has been more impoverished than these, who nevertheless set aside a day of thanksgiving. Yet, these faithful Christians recognized that even in the midst of great hardship and privation, they still enjoyed so many of God’s blessings. And a constitutive part of their thanksgiving was to give away. To give thanks to God with hearts and voices and then with hands to share what they had, even as little as it was, with one another — especially those who had even less than they did. And again, maybe that can be a lesson to us.

Later today, when we sit down with family or friends, our minds may easily drift to what is missing in our lives. Being human, it often feels more natural to list what we wish were different than to name the blessings already in front of us. Yet it is precisely in such moments — when worries weigh heavily and sorrows feel close — that the practice of gratitude becomes most important. To thank God is to shift our gaze from what is lacking to what is given. And thanksgiving is never complete unless it leads to generosity. Sharing what we have means more than money or a bag of groceries. It can be our time, our listening ear, our presence. It is making room in our lives for those who feel forgotten, those who hunger not just for food but for companionship, kindness, and love.

And so today we are invited to pause and to give thanks — not only for the obvious blessings, but also for those we may take for granted. Each of us has people, experiences, and gifts that have shaped us and sustained us — and continue to do so. Let us raise these up before God with grateful hearts, acknowledging that every good gift finds its source in Christ. In the Eucharist we celebrate today — the Church’s great sacrifice of thanksgiving — we recognize that all blessings flow from Christ’s cross and resurrection. To give thanks, then, is to return again to Christ himself, offering our lives back to the One who first gave his life for us, and who now feeds us with his very Body and Blood so that we may be strengthened to live in grateful service.

First Sunday of Advent – November 30, 2025

Readings: Isaiah 2:1–5 • Psalm 122: 1–2, 3–4, 4–5, 6–7, 8–9 • Romans 13:11–14 • Matthew 24:37–44
bible.usccb.org/bible/readings/113025.cfm

The film Twelve Years a Slave is based on the 1853 autobiography of Solomon Northup, a highly educated free man of color from Saratoga, New York. In 1841, while visiting Washington, D.C., he was kidnapped and sold into slavery. Northup spent twelve years working on plantations in Louisiana before finally being released. In 1968, two scholars retraced his account and found it to be remarkably accurate.

The film is powerful on many levels, but one theme in particular connects closely with the season of Advent: hope. Despite the cruelty and injustice of his captivity, Northup seemed to hold onto a hope that was deeper than mere wishing. Of course, he longed for freedom and reunion with his family, but what shone through was a trust that a day of deliverance would come. And that difference between wishing and hoping is essential for us as Christians.

The Dutch spiritual writer Henri Nouwen once observed that waiting becomes entangled when it is filled with wishes: I wish I had a better job. I wish the pain would go away. I wish someone would notice me. Wishes are understandable, but they are narrow and limiting. Hope, on the other hand, is open-handed. It trusts God enough to surrender control of the future, allowing God to define our lives in ways we cannot script. Mary and Jesus both lived this kind of hope — trusting that what God had begun in them would be brought to fulfillment.

Advent invites us into that same posture of active hope. It calls us to get in touch with our deepest yearnings and to risk intimacy with God. The mystic John of the Cross offers a vivid image here. He likens our lives to damp logs in a fire — smoldering but not yet ablaze. Before bursting into flame, the logs must first sizzle and dry out in the heat. For us, that “sizzling” can come through restlessness, loneliness, or unfulfilled desire. As painful as these experiences can be, they raise our inner temperature until we are ready to ignite with the fire of God’s love.

Advent reminds us that our longings and even our loneliness are not wasted energy. They are a hunger for God’s kingdom. In those desires we glimpse what the world might look like if Christ fully reigns: justice, peace, joy in the Holy Spirit. Even our more ordinary or selfish desires — be they for success, recognition, or pleasure — can point us deeper if we listen carefully. Beneath them all is the yearning for wholeness, harmony, and communion with Christ and one another.

Advent calls us not to run from our longing but to dwell in it, to let it raise our inner temperature, to “sizzle” in God’s presence, and to open ourselves in hope. For it is in that active waiting, that deep trusting hope, that we prepare our hearts for the coming of Christ, who alone can bring the justice, peace, and joy for which our souls ache.

And this hope is never just private. True Advent hope reaches outward — to the hungry, the suffering, and the forgotten — because the kingdom we await is about the renewal of the whole creation. That is why the Church gives us this season: so our hearts stay awake, our desires sharp, and our lives ready for God’s arrival.

In the end, Advent hope is faith in the God who comes—who came once in Bethlehem, who comes to us now in Word and Sacrament, and who will come again in glory. To live with such hope is to believe our deepest longings will be met in Christ, and that in Him all things will be made new.