In my youth, I had a complicated relationship with the Catholic Church. It wasn’t the teachings of the Church itself that troubled me, but rather the actions and attitudes of some parishioners—those who seemed self-appointed gatekeepers of faith. By the time I was 17, I wanted no part of what I saw as hypocrisy masquerading as true Christianity. In truth, my judgments came from pride. Turning away from the Church became an easy excuse to turn away from God.
Years passed. Life began to unfold in ways that felt fortunate—my marriage, my career, and other blessings seemed to align. And somewhere deep inside, I felt a pull to return. At 29, I made the decision to begin attending adult confirmation classes.
I’ll be honest—Wednesday nights filled me with trepidation. I felt like a fraud, like I was only doing this to appear as a “good man.” My parents’ quiet hope that I would remain a Catholic weighed on me in a strange, unspoken way. Their acceptance—or my fear of their disappointment—lingered heavily in my mind.
One evening, as part of our instruction, we were required to attend a Reconciliation Mass. For those unfamiliar, it’s a service where multiple priests are stationed throughout the church, ready to hear confessions and guide the faithful toward reconciliation with God. The name says it all—it’s about returning, repairing, and being restored.
After the Mass, lines began to form at each priest. My palms were sweating as I inched closer, my mind racing with shame and regret. Finally, it was my turn.
As I came face-to-face with the priest, a wave of shame washed over my entire being. My chest felt heavy, my throat tight, and I was on the verge of tears. I looked into his eyes and, with a trembling voice, confessed, “I am a fraud. I have lived a life of sin, of blasphemous rhetoric, and I have been an opponent of the Church. I believe it’s too late. It’s too late for me to come back. It’s too late for me to be a good man. It’s too late for my salvation. My efforts to be confirmed in the Church are in vain.”
The young priest looked at me with a calm and gentle gaze. Then, in a soft but steady voice, he said, “It’s never too late. In your last breath, in the final moment of your life, if you ask for forgiveness and invite Jesus into your heart, you will have a place in Heaven.”
I can’t fully describe what those words meant to me in that moment. A warmth unlike anything I had ever felt came over me—a peace that seemed to flow from somewhere beyond myself. In that instant, I truly believed I had a chance. God was welcoming me back.
I continued my Wednesday night classes with the other adults, and when it came time for our Confirmation, we were asked to choose a saint’s name as our own. I knew exactly who I wanted to honor—Saint Dismas, the thief on the cross who, in his dying breath, turned to Jesus and said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
Jesus answered him,
“Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.”
(Luke 23:42–43)
On Confirmation day, my parents were in attendance. They watched as I made this public act of faith. I remember the bishop anointing me with the sacred oil of Confirmation and announcing my chosen name. As he traced the sign of the cross on my forehead, I noticed a curious expression on his face.
Later, at the reception, the bishop sought me out. With a warm smile, he asked, “Why did you choose the name Dismas? In thirty years as a priest and bishop, I’ve never had anyone choose that name.”
I told him the story of the Reconciliation Mass and how, in that moment, I felt God’s mercy wash over me. “I chose that name,” I explained, “because it will forever remind me—and hopefully others—of God’s love and mercy, even when we feel unworthy. Even when we believe it’s too late.”
So I say to you, my brothers and sisters: truly believe it is never too late. Today—in this very moment—you have a choice. You can return to God. You can open your heart. You can let your soul shine through. Time is not measured the way we measure it in God’s world. The only price of entry is surrender. It takes no effort, only openness.
Open your heart and your soul to God, our Creator. His mercy is greater than your past, greater than your doubts, and greater than anything you think disqualifies you.
