The Feast of the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica, Sunday, November 9, 2025

John 2, 13–22

Since the Passover of the Jews was near, Jesus went up to Jerusalem. He found in the temple area those who sold oxen, sheep, and doves, as well as the money-changers seated there. He made a whip out of cords and drove them all out of the temple area, with the sheep and oxen, and spilled the coins of the money-changers and overturned their tables, and to those who sold doves he said, “Take these out of here, and stop making my Father’s house a marketplace.” His disciples recalled the words of Scripture, Zeal for your house will consume me. At this the Jews answered and said to him, “What sign can you show us for doing this?” Jesus answered and said to them, “Destroy this temple and in three days I will raise it up.” The Jews said, “This temple has been under construction for forty-six years, and you will raise it up in three days?” But he was speaking about the temple of his Body. Therefore, when he was raised from the dead, his disciples remembered that he had said this, and they came to believe the Scripture and the word Jesus had spoken.

It is in St. John’s Gospel that we learn of the three Passover’s the Lord Jesus spent in Jerusalem.  If not for John, we would have to suppose, based on the first three Gospels, that Jesus’ Public Life lasted only one year, since they describe only one journey to Jerusalem.  John also tells us that on two of these visits Jesus cast the money-changers out of the Temple precincts.  He does this on his first visit very early in his Public Life, not long after the Wedding at Cana.  St. John, providing precise details of these visits to the Holy City, tells us through Jewish witnesses to his actions at this time that the construction on the Temple had been ongoing for “forty-six years”.  Knowing when Herod began the construction, we can date this episode to 26-27 A.D.  This further leads us to conclude that the Lord died on the Cross in the Spring of 29-30 A.D.  

The Lord comes to the Temple with his newly acquired Apostles after the miracle at the Wedding at Cana where St. John tells us, he “manifested his glory; and his disciples believed in him” (John 2, 11).  To show that his mission is not only to the Jews in Galilee, he takes over the Temple: “He made a whip out of cords and drove them all out of the temple area, with the sheep and oxen, and spilled the coins of the money-changers and overturned their tables.”  No one had challenged the authorities of the Temple before.  He acts as though the Temple belongs to him, and to confirm this interpretation of his actions, he declares: “Take these out of here, and stop making my Father’s house a marketplace.”  He does not speak here of “our” Father, but of God as his own Father — as though he has a unique relationship with God utterly different from any other’s relationship with him.  Thus, he begins here to reveal himself as the Son of God, and acting on behalf of his Father.

“Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace.”  The cattle and birds sold in the courtyard made sacrifices convenient for pilgrims.  Joseph and Mary probably bought the birds they offered in sacrifice when they brought their baby to the Temple to present him to his Father.  The Lord’s action here, then, makes clear that the time of the sacrifices of the old law is over.  The Lord here begins the public offering of himself for our sins as he encounters mockery and derision from the Jewish leaders.

“Zeal for your house will consume me.”  The disciples recall this line from Psalm 69, 9.  The implication is that zeal for God’s house did not consume the Sanhedrin, the Jewish leadership.  Zeal for profits, culled from the money-changers and animal sellers, however, did.  The Greek verb translated as “consume” can be more graphically translated as “eats [me] until there is nothing left”.  The love of his Father and of his Father’s house as a sign of his Father did utterly consume him.  It ate him alive.  Or, as fire also consumes, it inflamed him until not even ashes remained.  We remember how he himself said, “I came to cast fire upon the earth; and would that it were already kindled!  I have a baptism to be baptized with; and how I am constrained until it is accomplished!” (Luke 12, 49-50).  His heart was on fire to do the Father’s will.

We celebrate today the dedication of the Basilica of St. John Lateran, which took place in 324 A.D. by Pope St. Sylvester.  The building had served as a palace for the Laterani family.  It came into the hands of the Emperor Constantine I and was given by him to the Church.  It is the seat of the Roman Pontiff and is considered the “mother church” of the Faithful.  As such, it represents the Catholic Church. 

The fiery zeal of the Lord Jesus for the Temple in Jerusalem is a sign of his zeal for the Catholic Church, his Bride.  May we share in his passion for her, defending her reputation and preaching her Gospel, so that we may rise with her in victory at the end of time when the Lord returns to lead her home to heaven.  And let us pray that the Lord will purge his Church of all that is evil and corrupt so that she may shine brightly, leading all people to him.

Saturday in the 31st Week of Ordinary Time, November 8, 2025

Romans 16:3-9, 16, 22-27

Brothers and sisters: Greet Prisca and Aquila, my co-workers in Christ Jesus, who risked their necks for my life, to whom not only I am grateful but also all the churches of the Gentiles; greet also the Church at their house. Greet my beloved Epaenetus, who was the firstfruits in Asia for Christ. Greet Mary, who has worked hard for you. Greet Andronicus and Junia, my relatives and my fellow prisoners; they are prominent among the Apostles and they were in Christ before me. Greet Ampliatus, my beloved in the Lord. Greet Urbanus, our co-worker in Christ, and my beloved Stachys. Greet one another with a holy kiss. All the churches of Christ greet you. I, Tertius, the writer of this letter, greet you in the Lord. Gaius, who is host to me and to the whole Church, greets you. Erastus, the city treasurer, and our brother Quartus greet you. Now to him who can strengthen you, according to my Gospel and the proclamation of Jesus Christ, according to the revelation of the mystery kept secret for long ages but now manifested through the prophetic writings and, according to the command of the eternal God, made known to all nations to bring about the obedience of faith, to the only wise God, through Jesus Christ be glory forever and ever. Amen.

Paul’s final chapter of the Letter to the Romans feels almost like a tapestry of friendship woven from the threads of grace. The names come one after another — Prisca, Aquila, Epaenetus, Mary, Andronicus, Junia, Ampliatus, Urbanus, Stachys — each one carrying its own quiet story of faith, courage, and service. The great Apostle who scaled the heights of theology in earlier chapters now descends into the humble plain of names, greetings, and gratitude. In this descent, he reveals something profound: the Gospel is not an abstract idea but a living communion of persons bound together in Christ.

Prisca and Aquila, who “risked their necks” for Paul, stand as the image of discipleship rooted in love’s daring. Their house church embodies the earliest form of Christian worship: faith taking shelter in the home, where the Eucharist was celebrated around an ordinary table. Here theology becomes domestic; sanctity takes the shape of hospitality.

Mary, who “has worked hard for you,” reminds us that the Church’s strength often lies in quiet service. Her labor—unrecorded, unadorned—is part of that invisible foundation upon which the visible Church rests. Andronicus and Junia, “prominent among the apostles,” challenge every notion that holiness or apostolic zeal can be limited by status or gender. Their imprisonment with Paul links them to the Cross, and their being “in Christ before me,” as Paul admits, places them among his teachers in grace.

Each greeting carries the tenderness of a father sending words to his children scattered across the Empire. But the chapter culminates in something still greater: the doxology — a hymn of praise to “the only wise God.” After so many human names, Paul’s final word is divine. The roll call of saints leads upward to the Source of all communion.

In that doxology, Paul draws together the whole mystery of salvation: the Gospel once hidden, now revealed; the obedience of faith extending to all nations; the eternal plan of God now made visible in Christ. The same voice that said “Greet one another with a holy kiss” now turns toward heaven: “To the only wise God, through Jesus Christ, be glory forever.” It is as though the Church, bound together in love on earth, is lifted into the eternal praise of heaven.

This closing chapter teaches that theology ends not in speculation but in communion; revelation finds its fullness not in words but in faces. Every believer named here — every laborer, prisoner, host, or benefactor—becomes a line in the great hymn of redemption.

And in the end, that hymn belongs not only to the first-century Christians of Rome but to every generation that lives the obedience of faith. Whenever the Church gathers in charity, prays together, and lifts its voice in praise, the ancient list of greetings becomes living again. Prisca and Aquila, Junia and Epaenetus, Paul and Tertius, you and I — all are gathered into the same song:

“To the only wise God, through Jesus Christ, be glory forever and ever. 

Amen.”  

Friday in the 31st Week of Ordinary Time, Friday, November 7, 2025

Romans 15, 14-21

I myself am convinced about you, my brothers and sisters, that you yourselves are full of goodness, filled with all knowledge, and able to admonish one another. But I have written to you rather boldly in some respects to remind you, because of the grace given me by God to be a minister of Christ Jesus to the Gentiles in performing the priestly service of the Gospel of God, so that the offering up of the Gentiles may be acceptable, sanctified by the Holy Spirit. In Christ Jesus, then, I have reason to boast in what pertains to God. For I will not dare to speak of anything except what Christ has accomplished through me to lead the Gentiles to obedience by word and deed, by the power of signs and wonders, by the power of the Spirit of God, so that from Jerusalem all the way around to Illyricum I have finished preaching the Gospel of Christ. Thus I aspire to proclaim the Gospel not where Christ has already been named, so that I do not build on another’s foundation, but as it is written: Those who have never been told of him shall see, and those who have never heard of him shall understand.

In these verses we see St. Paul near the end of his letter, speaking with a gentleness that could only belong to one who knows his authority springs not from pride but from grace.  He writes, “I myself am convinced about you, that you yourselves are full of goodness, filled with all knowledge, and able to admonish one another.”  These are not empty compliments.  Paul recognizes the maturity of the Roman Church.  Yet, as a true pastor, he also knows that memory fades and zeal cools; so he says, “I have written to you rather boldly… to remind you.”  His boldness is not a rebuke but a service  — the friendly urgency of one who tends the flame of faith in others.

Then Paul discloses something luminous: his ministry is a “priestly service of the Gospel of God.”  This is not metaphor.  He sees himself as a priest at an altar, offering up the Gentiles themselves as a living sacrifice, sanctified by the Holy Spirit.  The imagery unites the worlds of temple and mission: the Word he preaches becomes the sacrificial fire that purifies the nations.  Evangelization, in Paul’s understanding, is liturgy; and conversion is the transformation of the human heart into an oblation pleasing to God.

The apostle’s self-understanding, therefore, is profoundly sacerdotal.  He is not the author of the Gospel but its minister — one who mediates the presence of the crucified and risen Christ.  His “boasting” is carefully circumscribed: “In Christ Jesus, then, I have reason to boast in what pertains to God.”  In other words, his joy is not in his labor but in what God has accomplished through him.  Paul’s humility lies not in denying his work but in recognizing its true source.  He sees his whole life as a vessel of grace through which Christ acts, speaks, and saves.

When he recounts that “from Jerusalem all the way around to Illyricum I have finished preaching the Gospel,” we glimpse both the magnitude of his mission and the unity of his vision.  The arc from east to west marks not merely geography but theology: the Gospel is a single radiant circle, beginning in the city of David and stretching outward until all peoples share in Israel’s promises.  The world becomes one vast sanctuary where the nations themselves are the offering.

Paul’s next words reveal the spiritual engine of the missionary heart: “I aspire to proclaim the Gospel not where Christ has already been named.”  Here we encounter the holy restlessness of the apostle.  He cannot abide the thought that any soul should live without the name of Jesus.  His vocation is centrifugal — ever moving outward to the frontiers where light meets darkness.  Yet even this zeal is ordered by humility: “so that I do not build on another’s foundation.”  He honors the labors of others; he will not claim what is theirs.  His only desire is to plant the Cross where no one has yet seen it.

Finally, Paul quotes Isaiah: “Those who have never been told of Him shall see, and those who have never heard shall understand.”  In that single sentence, the prophet’s vision and the Apostle’s mission converge.  It is God Himself who longs to be known, who seeks the farthest hearts and calls them home.  Paul is but the instrument of that divine yearning — the voice that carries the Word into the silent places of the world.

To read these verses is to feel the beating pulse of the Church’s missionary soul.  Every believer, in some measure, shares this priestly calling: to make one’s life an offering through which others may glimpse the mercy of Christ.  Whether by word, deed, or prayer, each of us participates in that same sacred service of the Gospel, until those who have never been told shall see, and those who have never heard shall understand.

Thursday in the 31st Week of Ordinary Time, November 6, 2025

Romans 14, 7-12

Brothers and sisters: None of us lives for oneself, and no one dies for oneself. For if we live, we live for the Lord, and if we die, we die for the Lord; so then, whether we live or die, we are the Lord’s. For this is why Christ died and came to life, that he might be Lord of both the dead and the living. Why then do you judge your brother or sister? Or you, why do you look down on your brother or sister? For we shall all stand before the judgment seat of God; for it is written:  As I live, says the Lord, every knee shall bend before me, and every tongue shall give praise to God.  So then each of us shall give an account of himself to God.

St. Paul speaks in this passage with a serenity that could only come from one who has died to himself.  He looks out over the divisions that troubled the early Church—questions about dietary customs, holy days, and moral scruples—and reduces all the noise to one clear note: none of us lives for himself, and no one dies for himself.  The Christian is no longer a solitary being drifting through the world on his own purposes.  He has been claimed.  Life and death alike have been seized by Christ and folded into His dominion of love.

This is, at heart, the end of self-ownership.  The believer cannot say, “My life is my own,” nor can he say, “My death is mine to choose.”  Both belong to Another, and in that belonging lies our peace.  For to live for the Lord means that every ordinary act—eating, working, resting, suffering—becomes a liturgy of love offered to Him.  To die for the Lord means that even our dissolution is consecrated: our passing from this world becomes an act of obedience through which He remains Lord over us still.  Paul’s words erase the boundary between life and death; in both, Christ reigns, and we remain His.

The Apostle then presses the logic of that belonging into our relationships with one another: “Why then do you judge your brother or sister?”  If no one lives for himself, then no one stands on his own.  To judge another harshly is to usurp the Lord’s prerogative — to claim mastery over a soul that belongs not to us but to him.  Each Christian, even the weakest or most erring, is the Lord’s possession, sealed with His blood.  To despise that person is to despise the one who purchased them.  It is a subtle but profound form of impiety, for it divides what Christ has made one.

Paul anchors his appeal in the certainty of judgment: “We shall all stand before the judgment seat of God.”  This is not meant to terrify, but to awaken reverence.  Before that tribunal there will be no comparisons, no excuses, no disguises.  Each will give an account not of his neighbor’s conscience but of his own.  The Greek term bēma, “judgment seat,” evokes the raised platform from which a ruler rendered verdicts.  Christ Himself now occupies that place—not as a distant emperor, but as the Lord who died and rose precisely that He might be Lord of both the dead and the living.  The one who will judge us is the same who loved us unto death.

Paul crowns his reasoning with a line from Isaiah: “As I live, says the Lord, every knee shall bend before me, and every tongue shall give praise to God.”  The vision is universal: all creation, once scattered by pride, will bend toward its center in adoration.  To “bend the knee” is not only to confess divine sovereignty, but to recognize that the final word over every human story is praise.  Even the humblest life, lived in fidelity, will be revealed as a hymn.

When Paul concludes, “Each of us shall give an account of himself to God,” he restores the dignity of personal responsibility.  We cannot hide behind the failings of others, nor condemn them to shield ourselves.  Each heart stands alone before Mercy, yet not forsaken — because the one before whom we stand is also the one within whom we live and die.

In these few verses, Paul sketches the entire drama of Christian existence: belonging to Christ, reverencing our brethren, and preparing to meet Him who is both Judge and Savior.  To live in this awareness is already to begin that final act of praise in which every knee shall bow and every tongue shall confess that Jesus Christ is Lord — to the glory of God the Father.

Wednesday in the 31st Week of Ordinary Time, November 5, 2025

Romans 13, 8-10

Brothers and sisters: Owe nothing to anyone, except to love one another; for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law. The commandments, You shall not commit adultery; you shall not kill; you shall not steal; you shall not covet, and whatever other commandment there may be, are summed up in this saying, namely, You shall love your neighbor as yourself. Love does no evil to the neighbor; hence, love is the fulfillment of the law.

“Owe nothing to anyone, except to love one another.” In one brief sentence, St. Paul turns the entire moral life inside out. For him, Christianity is not about balancing accounts with God or neighbor. The believer is not a debtor paying installments of righteousness; rather, he is a heart set free — yet bound forever by the only debt that grows as it is paid: the debt of love.

Every other obligation fades beside this one. Property, reputation, honor — all these may rightfully be owed or discharged. But love can never be “settled,” because it is not a transaction. The more we love, the more we owe, for love does not empty itself in giving. It multiplies its own coinage, drawing us deeper into the divine treasury where love itself is the currency.

Paul’s argument is profoundly Jewish and profoundly Christian. He quotes the commandments, yet interprets them through the light of the Gospel. The prohibitions — you shall not commit adultery, you shall not kill, you shall not steal, you shall not covet — all define love negatively: love will not wound, destroy, or take. But the Christian law of love goes further. It does not merely restrain the hand; it transforms the heart. It is not content with avoiding sin — it overflows in doing good.

The moral law, when seen only as a list of boundaries, reveals how prone we are to harm one another. Love, when poured into the heart by the Holy Spirit, fulfills that same law not by erasing it, but by surpassing it. For the law was always meant to teach us how to love — and now the love of Christ accomplishes from within what commands could only demand from without.

“You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” Paul reminds us that true charity does not destroy the self but rightly orders it. To love another as oneself presumes a healed self-love — a recognition that one’s own life is a gift of God’s mercy. The Christian does not despise himself, nor does he idolize himself; he sees himself as one whom God has loved first. From that realization flows the ability to love others without rivalry or fear.

Love “does no evil to the neighbor,” not because it calculates moral advantage, but because it cannot bear to harm what God cherishes. The one who abides in this love becomes transparent to divine charity: his actions are no longer driven by law but by likeness to Christ.

In Christ, the commandments take flesh. He is the living fulfillment of the law because in Him love and justice kiss. On the Cross, He owed us nothing — yet gave all. To follow him, then, is not merely to imitate his compassion but to participate in it: to let his love move through our words, our patience, our hidden sacrifices.

When Paul says that “love is the fulfillment of the law,” he is not abolishing the moral order; he is showing that the end toward which all commandments point has arrived. The law once carved on stone now burns in living hearts. The Christian who loves thus walks not under a code but within a communion.

To owe nothing but love is to be forever indebted to grace — and forever free.

Tuesday in the 31st Week of Ordinary Time, November 4, 2025

Romans 12, 5-16

Brothers and sisters: We, though many, are one Body in Christ and individually parts of one another. Since we have gifts that differ according to the grace given to us, let us exercise them: if prophecy, in proportion to the faith; if ministry, in ministering; if one is a teacher, in teaching; if one exhorts, in exhortation; if one contributes, in generosity; if one is over others, with diligence; if one does acts of mercy, with cheerfulness. Let love be sincere; hate what is evil, hold on to what is good; love one another with mutual affection; anticipate one another in showing honor. Do not grow slack in zeal, be fervent in spirit, serve the Lord. Rejoice in hope, endure in affliction, persevere in prayer. Contribute to the needs of the holy ones, exercise hospitality. Bless those who persecute you, bless and do not curse them. Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep. Have the same regard for one another; do not be haughty but associate with the lowly.

St. Paul paints here one of the most luminous portraits of Christian community in the New Testament — a vision of unity in diversity, of sanctified difference bound together in love. The passage begins with the mystery of the Body of Christ: “We, though many, are one body in Christ and individually parts of one another.”  The Christian is never a solitary believer; incorporation into Christ means incorporation into His members.  Every gift of grace is therefore both personal and communal: given to one, but for all.

Paul’s next exhortation is profoundly practical.  Grace does not abolish individuality; it consecrates it.  Each person is to exercise the gift he has received—prophecy in proportion to faith, ministry in service, teaching in teaching, exhortation in encouragement, generosity in giving, diligence in leadership, and cheerfulness in mercy.  The Spirit does not standardize but harmonizes, forming from countless distinct charisms one melody of divine service.  What matters is not the brilliance of the gift, but its faithful use for the building up of others.  When a teacher teaches with humility, when a leader governs without pride, when one who shows mercy does so with joy — then the invisible life of Christ courses through the Body like blood through the veins.

At the center of this passage stands the command that transfigures every gift: “Let love be sincere.”  Without this, prophecy becomes arrogance, ministry a burden, and mercy condescension.  Sincere love is not sentimental but moral — it hates what is evil and clings to what is good.  It seeks to honor others first, to outdo them not in power but in reverence.  This is a reversal of the world’s order: instead of competition, cooperation; instead of ambition, affection.  Such love is the quiet miracle of a community alive in Christ.

Paul then sketches the spiritual temperament of those who live in this charity: zealous, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord; rejoicing in hope, enduring in affliction, persevering in prayer.  These three—hope, endurance, and prayer — are the lungs of the Body, breathing faith into every member.  A community that prays together learns to suffer together, and a community that suffers together learns to rejoice together.

Finally, Paul widens the circle of love to include the stranger and the enemy.  “Contribute to the needs of the holy ones; practice hospitality.”  Charity begins within the Church but does not end there; the home that welcomes the pilgrim becomes an image of the Father’s house.  And more daring still: “Bless those who persecute you.”  The Christian must turn from vengeance to intercession, seeing even in the persecutor one whom Christ died to save.  To rejoice with those who rejoice and to weep with those who weep — this is to share in the compassion of the Heart of Jesus.

Thus Paul brings us full circle: from the unity of the Body to the humility of the heart.  “Have the same regard for one another; do not be haughty but associate with the lowly.”  The Church’s harmony is preserved not by authority alone but by mutual deference — each seeing in the other a temple of the Spirit.  When this humility reigns, the many truly become one: one faith, one hope, one love, one Body in Christ, through whom and in whom all things are reconciled.

Monday in the 31st Week of Ordinary Time, November 3, 2025

Romans 11, 29-36

Brothers and sisters: The gifts and the call of God are irrevocable. Just as you once disobeyed God but have now received mercy because of their disobedience, so they have now disobeyed in order that, by virtue of the mercy shown to you, they too may now receive mercy. For God delivered all to disobedience, that he might have mercy upon all.  Oh, the depth of the riches and wisdom and knowledge of God! How inscrutable are his judgments and how unsearchable his ways! For who has known the mind of the Lord or who has been his counselor? Or who has given him anything that he may be repaid?  For from him and through him and for him are all things. To God be glory forever. Amen.

St. Paul here reaches a summit in his letter to the Romans — a moment of pure contemplation that bursts from the long and arduous path of argument. It is as though he has climbed, step by step, through the dark mystery of human disobedience and divine mercy, and at the peak he can only gaze, astonished, into the radiant depths of God’s wisdom.

The Apostle has been grappling with the fate of Israel, the chosen people, and with the mystery of how their unbelief became the occasion for the Gentiles’ salvation. Yet even as he writes of human disobedience, he sees God’s mercy shining behind it. What appears as tragedy in human eyes becomes, in the divine plan, a door to grace. “For God delivered all to disobedience, that He might have mercy upon all.” This is not to say that sin itself is willed by God — but that he, in his unfathomable wisdom, allows human failure to become the instrument of His compassion. Nothing is wasted in His providence; even rebellion is woven, through repentance, into the tapestry of redemption.

“The gifts and the call of God are irrevocable.” What God begins, he will not abandon. His covenant with Israel was not annulled but fulfilled in Christ, and His covenant with us rests on that same immovable fidelity. We often measure divine grace by our own fickleness, fearing that our sins have cancelled His promises. Yet Paul insists that God’s gifts do not expire with our failures. His call remains even when we turn away; His mercy endures beyond the measure of our repentance. The God who called Abraham, who spoke to Moses, who raised Christ from the dead, does not change his mind. His constancy is the great rock on which our trembling faith finds rest.

And so Paul, overwhelmed by this vision, abandons argument for adoration: “Oh, the depth of the riches and wisdom and knowledge of God!” Here theology yields to praise. The human mind, having traced the logic of salvation as far as it can, must fall silent before the abyss of divine wisdom. God’s plan is not a problem to be solved but a mystery to be worshipped. His judgments are “inscrutable,” not because they are irrational, but because they are too vast, too luminous, for our narrow sight. We glimpse their outline in the cross of Christ—a mercy that conquers judgment by passing through it, a love that redeems by suffering what it did not deserve.

Paul closes with what may be the most sweeping doxology in all of Scripture: “For from Him and through Him and for Him are all things.” In those few words lies an entire theology. All things come from God as their source; all things exist through God as their sustainer; all things tend toward God as their final goal. Creation itself is a vast circle returning to its origin, drawn home by the same love that first called it into being. Sin breaks the harmony of that circle, but grace restores it—until at last everything that has been scattered by disobedience will be gathered again into Christ, the center of all things.

To read these words is to feel Paul’s heart lifted from anguish to adoration. The God whose ways confound us is also the God whose mercy enfolds us. He owes nothing to anyone, yet He gives everything. We cannot repay him, yet he asks only our praise. And so, as Paul does, we must let our questions give way to wonder, our reasoning to reverence, and our hearts to thanksgiving.

“To God be glory forever. Amen.”