Crossing the Bridge: Lent as a Courageous Step Toward New Life

 Ash Wednesday

The closing of the Pattullo Bridge reminds us how easy it is to cling to what is familiar, even when we know a new and better path is needed. Lent is an invitation to step away from habits and patterns that are no longer life-giving and to embrace prayer, generosity, and sacrifice with renewed sincerity of heart. Through the symbol of ashes, we are reminded that what seems like an ending can become the beginning of new life when we trust Christ to lead us forward.

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On Monday, I had the opportunity to walk across the Pattullo Bridge one last time. As you know, the Pattullo Bridge is now closed and will soon be taken apart. In its place, a new bridge has been built: the stal̕əw̓asəm Bridge. It was a wonderful opportunity to cross that familiar span one final time. Perhaps some of you had the chance to do the same. If not, I am afraid the opportunity has passed.

What made the experience especially moving was what people had written in chalk along the bridge. Some messages were humorous: “R.I.P. Pattullo Bridge.” Others were heartfelt: “Thank you for your service,” or simply a heart with the words, “We will miss you.” Someone had even placed flowers there. It was clear that people felt attached to this bridge, this path that for decades connected New Westminster and Surrey. I saw someone interviewed on television who spoke about all the times they had crossed that bridge to visit family members, some of whom have since passed away. Of course there is nostalgia. Of course there is a certain hesitation about letting it go.

Yet in the midst of that nostalgia, we can forget something important: we needed a new bridge. Driving across the old one could be rather perilous. Some of you may remember having your mirrors clipped by passing trucks. Others may recall the netting installed underneath to catch pieces of concrete that might otherwise have fallen onto cars below. As much as we might feel sentimental, we needed a safer, stronger way forward.

Ash Wednesday, as we begin Lent, is something like that moment of crossing from the old bridge to the new. It is an opportunity to leave one path behind and take another. Often the path we cling to is familiar. It may even have served us well for a time. But deep down, we know that some habits, patterns of behaviour, or ways of relating to others are no longer life-giving. We sense that God is calling us to something new, something better, even if it feels uncertain or demanding.

In the Gospel, Jesus speaks about prayer, almsgiving, and fasting. These are not simply religious exercises. They are concrete ways of stepping onto that new bridge. Prayer deepens our relationship with God. Almsgiving reflects our love and generosity toward others. Fasting helps us let go of what does not truly nourish us, whether that be food or other attachments that distract or diminish us. Above all, Jesus reminds us that what matters is the heart. These practices are meant to be rooted in authenticity, in love of God and love of neighbour.

When I was younger, I used to dread Lent. It felt like a season of deprivation. We put ashes on our foreheads and speak about repentance. It can sound heavy. But the older I get, the more I recognize a simple truth: change is difficult. It is difficult for me, and I suspect it is difficult for all of us. We can see clearly where we need to grow, and yet taking that first step can feel daunting.

That is why Lent is a blessed season. It is a time when, as a community, we focus together on the changes to which God is calling us. We do not attempt this on our own. We trust that Christ gives us the grace and strength we need. The ashes we receive today are a sign of that grace.

These ashes come from the palms we held on Palm Sunday. Those palms once symbolized Christ’s triumphant entry into Jerusalem. Over time they dried and withered. Now they are burned and transformed into ash. What once seemed finished is given new meaning.

Ash can seem like a symbol of destruction, but it is also a sign of new life. After a forest fire, the landscape may look devastated. Yet the ash returns nutrients to the soil, and in time new growth emerges. What appears to be an ending becomes the beginning of something new.

So too in our lives. Lent invites us to let certain things die so that something better can grow. Leaving old paths behind is not easy. Taking a new bridge, a new direction, requires courage. But we do not do it alone. We walk this journey together, strengthened by Christ.

Like any significant change, what matters most is often the first step. Today, as we receive ashes, we take that step. We step onto the new bridge, trusting that the One who calls us forward will also give us the grace to cross.

From Law to the Heart

 6 Sunday Ordinary Time, Year A

In Matthew 5:17–37, Jesus teaches that he fulfills the law not by adding more rules, but by transforming the human heart, moving from external obedience to interior conversion. In the wake of the Tumbler Ridge tragedy, this Gospel reminds us that healing, reconciliation, and grace begin in the heart. Like the moon reflecting the sun at Lunar New Year, Christians are called to reflect Christ’s light, allowing his grace to renew our hearts and bring hope to a wounded world.

Listen to homily here:

Read homily here:

There are some stereotypes when it comes to being Catholic. One is that Catholics have many commandments and instructions. Another is that Catholics are often burdened with guilt when we do not follow them perfectly. In today’s Gospel, Jesus speaks at length about the commandments, and at first glance it may seem that he is adding even more to our plate.

He tells us, “I have come not to abolish the law but to fulfill it.” He also says, “Unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven.” Those are strong words. What does it mean for our righteousness to exceed that of the Pharisees? What does it mean for Christ to fulfill the law?

In the end, Jesus is drawing our attention to the heart. The commandments matter. They guide us in loving God and loving our neighbour. But Jesus has come not simply to reinforce external observance. He has come to change our hearts.

This Gospel comes to us at a difficult moment in our province. Many are struggling with grief and sorrow after the violence in Tumbler Ridge. There is confusion, anger, pain, and mourning. There is a deep need for healing and reconciliation. Into this reality, Jesus speaks about the heart. He comes not to condemn, but to heal and to give hope. He desires to transform what lies at the root of our actions.

In the Gospel, Jesus repeatedly says, “You have heard that it was said,” and he recalls the commandments. Then he adds, “But I say to you.” It is not only about murder, but about anger. It is not only about adultery, but about lust. It is not only about oath-breaking, but about the integrity of our speech.

Jesus is not multiplying rules in order to make us anxious or scrupulous. He is showing us that everything begins in the heart. Violence in the world, whether physical or verbal, does not appear out of nowhere. It begins with resentment, with hatred, with a failure to see the other person’s dignity. It begins in the heart.

Jesus speaks in strong and even startling language. If your hand causes you to sin, cut it off. Of course, he is speaking in hyperbole. He is underscoring how serious our interior life is. Small seeds, if left unattended, can grow into something destructive. Anger can lead to resentment. Resentment can lead to division. Division can lead to conflict.

Yet Jesus is not trying to lead us into despair. He fulfills the law not by giving us more regulations, but by giving us the grace to live what the law intends. The Sermon on the Mount, including the Beatitudes, is impossible without God’s grace. Our hearts are central, and Christ has come to renew them.

This week, many also celebrate the Lunar New Year. In many cultures it marks a hopeful beginning, a chance to look forward with confidence. Even though we celebrate January 1 according to the solar calendar, we are not strangers to lunar rhythms. The Jewish tradition followed a lunar calendar, and even the dating of Easter depends on the cycle of the moon.

The moon has long been a rich symbol in Christian reflection. The sun produces its own light, but the moon shines by reflecting the light of the sun. At times it appears dark, and at other times it is full and radiant. Its light is borrowed light.

This image can help us understand what Christ does in our hearts. He does not ignore the darkness within us, the grief, the anger, the wounds, or the unforgiveness. But when his grace touches us, our hearts are illuminated. Like the moon that begins as a small sliver and gradually grows brighter, our hearts can grow in light when they reflect Christ.

So we return to that question. How can our righteousness exceed that of the scribes and Pharisees? Not by adding more rules. Not by becoming overly scrupulous. Not by being driven by guilt. Our righteousness exceeds when Christ changes our hearts. From the heart flow all our words and actions.

In this Eucharist, we pray especially for those whose hearts are heavy with grief. We pray for healing and peace in our province. We also pray for ourselves, that we may allow Christ to transform us from within. We fall short each day, but with God’s grace we can walk the path set before us.

May the Lord enter our hearts once again and fill them with his light, so that we may reflect his love and peace to the world.

Salt, Light, and Credibility: What Real Christian Witness Looks Like Today

 5 Sunday OT, Year A

In a world filled with loud public claims of Christianity that are not always compelling, Jesus reminds his followers that true witness is measured not by volume or power, but by credibility. Through the images of salt and light, the Gospel shows that Christians are called to draw out the goodness in others and to reveal what is life-giving, without overpowering or dominating. Authentic Christian witness makes God visible not through force or status, but through a quiet presence that enhances goodness and illuminates the path toward Christ.

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Sometimes people suggest that one of the problems Christians face in the world today is that they need to be quiet about their faith, or that they should not really show it to others. Certainly, in some parts of the world, Christians do face persecution, and it is also true that at times people may feel embarrassed or hesitant about practising their faith openly. But despite these challenges, it is difficult to say that Christianity is always quiet in the public sphere. In fact, there are many very loud expressions of Christianity in the world today.

For example, one could argue that the Super Bowl is one of the days of the year when the most prayers are offered. In many sporting events, athletes quite openly make the sign of the cross, whether at the Olympics or the World Cup. In politics as well, we often hear public figures quoting the Bible or referencing the fact that they are Christians and followers of Jesus. Christianity, it seems, is not always subtle or hidden. And yet, these loud expressions are not always compelling. At times, they even push people away.

What seems to be missing is not volume, but credibility. In fact, simply saying that one is Christian can sometimes act less like an announcement of good news and more like a warning sign. Christianity can acquire a bad reputation, not because of the Gospel itself, but because of the way it is sometimes embodied. This is not new. Throughout history, people with power or wealth have often claimed the Christian name while living lives very far from the Gospel. In the early centuries after Christianity was legalized, many Roman emperors called themselves Christians, yet their lives bore little resemblance to Christ. Later, during the Renaissance, some popes, despite being regarded as the vicars of Christ, lived in ways that were deeply scandalous. The same pattern continues today when those in positions of power claim Christianity while offering an example that contradicts the message of Jesus.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus seems to anticipate this problem. He offers two simple but profound images that show us what credible Christian witness looks like: salt and light. Both images point to a way of being present in the world that is not forceful or domineering, but transformative in a quieter and more authentic way.

Consider first the image of salt. In the time of Jesus, salt was extremely valuable. The word salary itself comes from the fact that Roman soldiers were sometimes paid with salt. Salt was used to preserve food, to disinfect wounds, and, as today, to enhance flavour. It is this last use that is especially helpful. When used properly, salt draws out the goodness of what is already there. But too much salt can ruin a dish.

I remember when I was in elementary school becoming interested in cooking and baking, long before you could look everything up online. I once attempted to make meringue, those baked desserts made from whipped egg whites and sugar. The recipe called for just a small amount of salt, but I misunderstood what that meant and added far too much. The result was inedible and had to be thrown away. Salt, when it overpowers, destroys rather than enhances.

The same can be true of Christian witness. When Christianity becomes overbearing or dominating, it ceases to be attractive. There are forms of Christianity that imply that believers are better than others or that seek to control rather than serve. This is not credible witness. To be salt in the world means helping to draw out the goodness already present in others, helping people recognize the dignity and goodness with which God has created them.

The image of light carries a similar meaning. Today we take light for granted. We simply flip a switch. In the ancient world, light was precious and difficult to come by. Yet light, too, can be misused. I was driving recently on a rainy evening when a car approached from the opposite direction with extremely bright headlights. They were so intense that they actually made it harder to see. Good light, however, does the opposite. It illuminates the path, reveals direction, and allows us to move safely.

Light should never blind. It should reveal. Think of a sunrise. Gradually, what was hidden in darkness becomes visible, and the beauty of creation emerges. When Jesus calls us light, he is inviting us to live in a way that reveals goodness, that helps others see both the path forward and the beauty already present in their lives. Christian witness should illuminate, not overwhelm. It should guide, not dominate.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus invites us to reflect seriously on what kind of witnesses we are. When people think of a Christian, what comes to mind? Someone who claims faith but contradicts it in practice, or someone whose presence brings out goodness, sheds light, and quietly points toward God?

As we continue with this Mass and enter the coming week, perhaps one final question is worth considering. Imagine that someone encounters you this week and knows that you are a Christian. Imagine, in fact, that you are the only Christian they ever meet. What kind of picture of Christ would your life give them?