From Adam to Christ: A Lenten Journey of Hope

 1 Sunday of Lent, Year A

As the Church celebrates the Rite of Election and accompanies those preparing for Baptism, Lent invites all the faithful to rediscover the meaning of their own baptismal identity. The readings contrast Adam and Christ, reminding us that while we share in humanity’s woundedness, we are being transformed into the likeness of Christ, the new Adam. This season calls us to live both compunction and joy, honestly facing our need for conversion while trusting in the mercy that leads us toward Easter hope.

Listen to homily here

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This 1st Sunday of Lent at Holy Rosary Cathedral, an important celebration will take place: the Rite of Election. Each year at the cathedral, the Archbishop gathers those adults who are preparing to enter the Catholic Church at the Easter Vigil. This year, Archbishop Smith will greet, welcome, and bless them as they continue their journey toward Baptism and full communion. The cathedral will be filled with catechumens, candidates, their sponsors, and members of RCIA programs from across the archdiocese who have accompanied them with prayer and encouragement.

In our own parish, we have much to give thanks for. Seventeen catechumens are preparing to be baptized at the Easter Vigil, and ten candidates, already baptized in another Christian tradition, are preparing to enter into full communion with the Catholic Church. Tomorrow, they will be called forward and chosen, their names inscribed as a sign of the Church’s confidence in God’s work within them.

It is helpful to keep this Rite of Election in mind as we begin Lent. In the early Church, these forty days were a particularly intense time of preparation for those awaiting Baptism. Lent was first and foremost their season. After the Rite of Election, they entered into a period of prayer, fasting, and instruction as they prepared to die and rise with Christ in the waters of Baptism. That remains true today.

Lent, then, is not only about personal improvement. It is about Baptism. As we accompany those preparing to enter the Church, we are also called to renew and deepen our own baptismal identity. We are invited to remember who we are and to rediscover the story into which we have been baptized.

In the readings today, especially in the first reading and in Saint Paul’s letter, we are presented with a striking contrast between Adam and Christ. These two figures shape the Christian understanding of our story. We descend from Adam, yet through Baptism we are joined to Christ. We carry something of both within us.

In Genesis, we hear of Adam and Eve in the garden, created in the image and likeness of God, endowed with extraordinary dignity. Yet through disobedience, their relationships were fractured: with God, with one another, and even with creation itself. Saint Paul reminds us that this woundedness touches all humanity. We share in that brokenness. Each of us knows, if we are honest, that we struggle. None of us are perfect.

Yet this is not a message of despair. It is the context for hope. Saint Paul proclaims that Jesus Christ is the new Adam, the one who comes to undo what was done in the beginning. Where Adam gave in to temptation, Christ remained faithful. In the Gospel, Jesus is tempted in the wilderness but does not fall. He lives fully our humanity, yet without sin.

Through Baptism, we are joined to him. The transformation has begun, even if it is not yet complete. We still feel within ourselves the pull of the old Adam, but we are being conformed more and more to Christ. The fullness of that transformation will come at the resurrection.

One of the most powerful images of this mystery is found in the ancient icon known as the Harrowing of Hell. In it, Christ descends to the realm of the dead and takes Adam and Eve by the hand, lifting them up and drawing them toward the Father. It is a vivid expression of what Saint Paul describes: Christ entering into our brokenness in order to raise us up.

This is the story into which we have been baptized. It is the story Lent invites us to remember.

Traditionally, Lent has been described as a season marked by two realities that exist together: compunction and joy. Catholic faith is often a matter of both and.

Compunction is a word we do not use often. It describes the sorrow we feel when we recognize that we have done wrong. It is the honest awareness that something in us needs healing. On Ash Wednesday, we heard the words, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Lent places our lives in perspective. We remember that we are finite. We acknowledge our need for mercy.

Like Jesus in the wilderness, we enter a place of testing and reflection. The wilderness is a place of struggle, but also of renewal. Israel passed through the wilderness on the way to the Promised Land. During Lent, we ask ourselves: Where am I falling short? What habits need to change? Where is God inviting me to grow?

Yet we do not remain in sorrow alone. Lent makes sense only in light of Easter. We do not approach a harsh judge, but a Savior who understands our weakness. Christ does not expose our wounds in order to condemn us, but in order to heal us.

As we begin this Lenten season, let us pray for both compunction and joy. Let us ask for the grace to see clearly where we need conversion, and at the same time to trust deeply in the mercy of Christ.

Perhaps during this Mass, each of us can identify one area where the Lord is inviting growth. Then let us turn our gaze toward Jesus, the new Adam, who has come not to leave us in our brokenness, but to raise us up and transform us into his likeness.

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.

Listen to homily here:

Read homily here:

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.