9 November 2025
Normally today would be the 32nd Sunday in Ordinary Time, but today, like last weekend, it is abrogated for another solemnity: the Feast of the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica in Rome. So, the question must be asked: why in the world are we celebrating the dedication of a building today? It seems crazy. We don’t normally pause our liturgical calendar to honor architecture, especially on a Sunday. Most of us haven’t been there.
Here’s where I get to brag for a moment. I was just there in October. I was able to celebrate the Mass on the high altar there. It was a thrill for me.
But I digress — because even though most of us have never been there
and few of us could even point it out on a map, today the Church throughout the entire world pauses our normal Sunday readings to celebrate the dedication of one building—the Basilica of Saint John Lateran.
So, why does the whole Church— across continents, languages, and centuries — stop on this Sunday to remember the dedication of one church building in Rome?
It sounds strange. But this feast has nothing to do with marble or mosaics for their own sake. It’s about what that building means. It’s about who dwells there — and who dwells in us.
The following words, inscribed in Latin above the front doors of the Archbasilica of Saint John Lateran in Rome, greet every pilgrim
and clearly proclaim its significance.
“The most holy Church of the Lateran, the mother and head of all the churches of the city and the world!”
We call the Lateran the mother of every church because it was the first legalized Christian Church in history. And as Pope Francis once said,
“As there is a mother in a family, so does the venerated Cathedral of the Lateran become a ‘mother’ to the churches of all the communities of the Catholic world.”
It is also called the head because Rome is the principal Church of the principal local Church in the world — the Diocese of Rome — the See of St. Peter, the Vicar on earth of the Head of the Mystical Body.
The Lateran — not St. Peter’s — is the Pope’s Cathedral, where his cathedra, his teaching chair rests, and no, I did not sit in it while I was there 😉. And it was at the Lateran — not in the Vatican — where the Popes resided for the first millennium of legalized Christianity, from the Edict of Milan in 324 until 1308.
This is why, on November 9 each year, not only the Diocese of Rome
but the entire Catholic Church celebrates the dedication of its head and mother.
In a homily for this feast, Pope Francis said, “With this feast, we profess,
in the unity of the faith, the bond of communion that all the local Churches,
spread throughout the earth, have with the Church of Rome and with its Bishop, the successor to Peter.”
We might even call Saint John Lateran the Cathedral of the world.
The history of the Lateran symbolizes the history of the Church herself
— the Church that theologians remind us is always in need of reform.
Over the centuries, the Lateran has been pillaged by vandals, decimated by fire three times, toppled by an earthquake, and neglected by popes and the faithful alike for decades. Yet after every destruction and deformation,
the Lateran rose again.
It continues to proclaim to the city and the world the Church’s faith
— through the words of the popes and through five ecumenical councils held within its walls — and through the beauty of its art and architecture.
The Lateran stands as a sign of hope for the Church in every age and place. It reminds us that the Church — and every soul within her —
can be damaged, shaken, or scarred by sin and scandal, but always restored by grace.
It’s therefore not only a monument of stone but a living symbol of God’s faithfulness.
Here in our own parish, we’ve renovated and renewed our worship space.
I hope that we’ve repaired what was broken, refreshed what had grown tired, and created a space that lifts our hearts more fully toward God.
That’s a good and holy thing. Sacred space teaches us; beauty leads us to prayer.
But there’s an important reminder embedded in this feast — one we cannot miss:
Even the most beautiful church, even the grandest renovation, means nothing if the temple of our hearts remains in ruins.
The Father’s house, whether in Rome or right here, is meant to be a house of prayer. Like the Lateran, our churches are signs pointing beyond themselves — to something interior and eternal.
We are each meant to be houses of worship, sanctuaries where Jesus’ word resonates, altars where God is adored, not self-promotion or worldly idols.
Our daily schedule is meant to be a “liturgy of the hours.” Our heart, an altar. Our life, a Mass in which we, together with Jesus, say to the Father,
“This is my body, this is my blood, given out of love for you.”
That’s exactly what Jesus meant in today’s Gospel when He drove the money changers from the Temple and declared, “Destroy this temple,
and in three days I will raise it up.”
He was speaking, John tells us, about the temple of His Body. Christ Himself is the true Temple — the place where heaven and earth meet,
where God’s presence dwells fully among us. When He died and rose,
His body became the cornerstone of a new and living temple — the Church. And when we are united to Him, we become living stones,
temples of the Holy Spirit.
As Paul told us in the second reading today:
“You are God’s building. Do you not know that you are the temple of God, and that the Spirit of God dwells in you?”
Every time we receive Holy Communion, the very presence of God enters into us. The temple of God is not far away in Rome or even just in this building — it is within you. We become walking tabernacles with the presence of Christ within us.
That’s why the Lateran is not only about history — it’s about holiness.
It’s not enough to maintain an impressive exterior if the inside is lifeless.
For us not to be like the Scribes and Pharisees Jesus described when He said:
“You are like whitewashed tombs, which appear beautiful on the outside, but inside are full of dead men’s bones and every kind of filth.”
We can have new walls, bright paint, and polished marble, but if our hearts are unclean, if resentment, pride, or indifference remain, then all our effort is hollow.
Jesus didn’t cleanse the Temple in Jerusalem because He disliked commerce. He did it because His Father’s house had lost its soul.
Our worship space, too, can become just a shell if it doesn’t lead us to personal conversion — to the cleansing of our own inner temples.
So as we enjoy the renovation and the beautification of our church,
we must also let God rebuild us.
Let Him tear down the walls of bitterness. Let Him sweep away the clutter of distraction.
Let Him repair the foundations of faith that may have cracked under the weight of fear or doubt.
The Lateran’s long history of destruction and restoration mirrors what God wants to do in every heart here today: He wants to make His dwelling with you yet again. He wants you to turn to Him when you have allowed your life to fall into shambles.
This passage from the Office of Readings gives us a perfect image:
“My fellow Christians, do we wish to celebrate joyfully the birth of this temple? Then let us not destroy the living temples of God in ourselves by works of evil. Whenever we come to church, we must prepare our hearts to be as beautiful as we expect this church to be. Do you wish to find this basilica immaculately clean? Then do not soil your soul with the filth of sins. Do you wish this basilica to be full of light? God too wishes that your soul be not in darkness, but that the light of good works shine in us,
so that he who dwells in the heavens will be glorified. Just as you enter this church building, so God wishes to enter into your soul,
for he promised: ‘I shall live in them, and I shall walk the corridors of their hearts.’”
So today, yes — we celebrate a building. But even more, we celebrate what it represents: God’s presence, His faithfulness, His desire to dwell
not only in temples made of stone but in living temples of flesh and blood.
As we have renewed and beautified this sacred space, let us also allow the Lord to renew and beautify our souls. Let our parish be not only architecturally restored, but spiritually alive.
Then this church — and every heart within it — will truly become what the Lateran proclaims: A dwelling place of God, the mother and head of all that is holy, alive, and redeemed in Christ.