Monday in the first Week of Advent, December 1, 2025

Matthew 8, 5-17

When Jesus entered Capernaum, a centurion approached him and appealed to him, saying, “Lord, my servant is lying at home paralyzed, suffering dreadfully.” He said to him, “I will come and cure him.” The centurion said in reply, “Lord, I am not worthy to have you enter under my roof; only say the word and my servant will be healed. For I too am a man subject to authority, with soldiers subject to me. And I say to one, ‘Go,’ and he goes; and to another, ‘Come here,’ and he comes; and to my slave, ‘Do this,’ and he does it.” When Jesus heard this, he was amazed and said to those following him, “Amen, I say to you, in no one in Israel have I found such faith. I say to you, many will come from the east and the west, and will recline with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob at the banquet in the Kingdom of heaven, but the children of the Kingdom will be driven out into the outer darkness, where there will be wailing and grinding of teeth.” And Jesus said to the centurion, “You may go; as you have believed, let it be done for you.” And at that very hour his servant was healed.  Jesus entered the house of Peter, and saw his mother-in-law lying in bed with a fever. He touched her hand, the fever left her, and she rose and waited on him. When it was evening, they brought him many who were possessed by demons, and he drove out the spirits by a word and cured all the sick, to fulfill what had been said by Isaiah the prophet: He took away our infirmities and bore our diseases.

The season of Advent sharpens our awareness of a truth that quietly runs through the whole Gospel: the world is aching for a Savior. Behind the hymns, candles, and collects is a shared, ancient longing — the cry of the human heart for Someone who can cross the infinite distance between heaven and earth, speak a word, and restore what is broken. Matthew 8, 5–17 gathers three scenes of this longing and its fulfillment, each shining a different light on the Messiah who comes to us at Christmas.

When Jesus enters Capernaum, He encounters a Roman centurion — an outsider, a pagan, a representative of foreign power. Yet it is this man whose heart is most open. His plea is almost gentle: “Lord, my servant is lying at home paralyzed, suffering dreadfully.” Advent teaches us to listen for such voices. The yearning for God is rarely loud; it is the voice of one who suffers acutely and hopes quietly. In this soldier we see humanity uneasily holding together two experiences: a helpless compassion (“my servant . . . suffering dreadfully”) and a powerless trust (“Lord, only say the word”). Advent is precisely this mingling — our felt weakness with our growing trust that someone is finally near.

Christ answers with a generosity that reveals his heart: “I will come and cure him.” He is always the One who comes. From the moment the Word takes flesh in Mary’s womb, He is “the One who comes into the world.” Advent is not merely our movement toward Christ; it is Christ’s movement toward us.

But the centurion’s response sends a surge of astonishment through the Gospel: “Lord, I am not worthy to have you enter under my roof; only say the word.” These words open the way for us to understand Advent. Human unworthiness is not a wall; it is a doorway. Those who recognize their smallness make room for the greatness of Christ. The centurion knows authority not by brute force but by obedience. He grasps something profound: if human commands have effect at a distance, what of the Creator’s word? Christ marvels — not at the man’s reasoning, but at the trust shining through it. “In no one in Israel have I found such faith.” He sees in this pagan soldier the first glow of the Gentiles streaming toward the newborn King.

And so we hear the Advent promise: “Many will come from the east and the west and will recline with Abraham.” Isaiah’s prophecy begins its fulfillment: nations walking in God’s light, entering the banquet of the Messiah. Christ is the Dawn for all nations, rising over all peoples.

The second scene — Peter’s mother-in-law lying with fever — shows the nearness of Christ’s healing. He does not speak, he touches. Advent is filled with the tenderness of divine humility: God stooping to touch the hand of the suffering. Her rising to serve reveals the true meaning of divine healing. Christ does not merely restore us to health; He restores us to service. Her response is the perfect Advent gesture: rising to prepare a place for the Lord who has come under her roof.

The third scene broadens the horizon. At sundown — a symbol of humanity’s long night — they bring to Jesus all who are oppressed, afflicted, tormented. The demons flee at his word; the sick are cured; human misery meets divine authority and melts away. Matthew shows how this moment was foreseen in the prophecy of Isaiah: “He took away our infirmities and bore our diseases.” Advent asks us to gaze upon this mystery: not a distant God, but a God who takes our afflictions into Himself. The Child in the manger is already the Servant who carries our sorrows.

In these three encounters, we find the whole rhythm of Advent: Longing: the centurion calling out for his suffering servant. Coming: Christ drawing near to heal, restore, and touch. Fulfillment: Isaiah’s prophecy embodied in the Messiah who bears our infirmities.

This passage reveals that our faith is not passive waiting but confident trust in the God who enters our world and our homes with power and mercy. The centurion’s words become our own at every Mass, precisely in Advent we speak them with deeper awareness: “Lord, I am not worthy . . . but only say the word.” In that word — spoken from eternity and conceived in the Blessed Virgin —our healing has already begun.