Disciples Who Serve: The Wisdom of Martha and Mary

 17 Sunday of Ordinary Time year C; Luke 10:38–42

When Jesus visited Martha and Mary, He wasn’t choosing between work and worship—he was showing us we need both. Martha teaches us to serve with love; Mary reminds us to stay close to Jesus. The best disciples are those who welcome others and make time to listen at the feet of the Lord.

Listen to homily here:

When I first started my time in seminary, we had a kind of Christmas party in the recreation room. I was a new seminarian, and as you might imagine, seminary life is a bit unusual. You have all these men living together, praying together, reading the Bible together—so the way we interact and the sense of humour we develop can sometimes be a bit strange to outsiders.

After the party, I stayed behind to help clean up. It was just me and a couple of others—most people had already left. As I was working away, another seminarian walked in. He must have thought he was being funny, and he said to me, “Martha, Martha, you are anxious and worried about many things.”

At that moment, that was not the kind of joke I wanted to hear. I felt a flash of anger. I wanted to snap back, “Well, are you going to pick up a broom and help or not?”

Because of that moment, this Gospel story has always been a bit of a sore spot for me. It irks me. Whenever I hear it proclaimed, I feel a bit upset for Martha—she seems unfairly criticized. She’s doing something good and necessary, and it seems like Jesus is scolding her for it.

But the Gospel is the Word of Life. It may challenge us, but it’s not meant to upset us. When a Gospel passage bothers us, it might be because we’re not seeing the full picture. That’s certainly the case with today’s reading.

This Gospel should not be read as a criticism of those who work hard or are busy. What Martha is doing is extremely valuable—she’s welcoming Jesus into her home. She is offering him hospitality. And hospitality, as we see in today’s first reading from Genesis, is one of the key virtues in the biblical tradition.

In Genesis 18, Abraham welcomes three mysterious visitors. We, the readers, are told it is the Lord, but Abraham doesn’t know that. For him, it’s simply three travelers who appear at his tent. He responds with extravagant hospitality—offering food, water, rest. He treats them with reverence and generosity.

This becomes a kind of test for Abraham: will he welcome these guests, even without knowing who they truly are? And he does. Because of this, he and Sarah receive a promise—the promise of a son, Isaac.

This story teaches us that hospitality matters. As the Letter to the Hebrews reminds us: “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it” (Heb 13:2). Timothy Schmalz, a Canadian sculptor, has a piece in St. Peter’s Square titled Angels Unaware. It depicts migrants from all over the world, with angel wings hidden among them—reminding us that in welcoming others, we might just be welcoming Christ.

So if Martha is doing something good and holy, why does Jesus say that Mary has chosen “the better part”?

To understand this, we have to look closely at what Mary is doing. She’s not merely relaxing while Martha works. Luke tells us she is “sitting at the feet of Jesus.” In biblical language, to sit at someone’s feet means to be their disciple. In Acts 22:3, Paul says he was educated “at the feet of Gamaliel”—it’s a phrase that signifies discipleship.

Mary, then, is choosing to be a disciple. That is the “better part.” It’s not that Martha is wrong to serve—but Mary has chosen to be taught, to be formed, to give her full attention to Jesus. And Jesus praises that choice.

Still, he doesn’t condemn Martha. He simply invites her to remember why she is serving. It’s not enough to be busy—we must also be intentional. Our service must flow from our relationship with Jesus, from our identity as his disciples.

That’s the heart of the message: not a rejection of work, but a call to integrate it with discipleship. We are called to be both Martha and Mary—servants who are also disciples, and disciples who serve.

This is true not only for us as individuals, but also as a community. Hospitality in a parish is essential. Many people who come to our church for the first time tell me later: “I came back because someone made me feel welcome. I felt at home here.” That’s the work of Martha. That’s hospitality in action. And it’s beautiful.

Let us then be inspired by this Gospel—not to dismiss Martha, or idolize Mary, but to learn from both. Let us be people who serve with love, and who sit at the feet of Jesus with open hearts. Let us be disciples who serve.

Look for the Helpers

15 Sunday OT, year C | Luke 10

Jesus' parable of the Good Samaritan challenges us to examine our own tendency to judge or exclude others based on group identity. Sometimes, the people we least expect are the ones who show the greatest compassion and faithfulness. Like Mr. Rogers taught, our call as Christians is to be the helpers—those who reach out in love, regardless of differences.

Listen to homily here:

 

Some years ago, I was living in a parish in Kerrisdale, and as you may know, Kerrisdale is a very nice neighbourhood—lots of beautiful homes and quite a bit of wealth. As I walked down the main street, I’d often see luxury cars: Ferraris, Lamborghinis, the kind of cars you only see in magazines. What really surprised me, though, was that many of these flashy sports cars had novice driver signs on the back—an “N” indicating a new driver. It blew my mind that students, often on their way to UBC, were driving these expensive vehicles.

So, I began to get judgmental. Whenever I saw one of those cars, I would quietly (thankfully not outwardly!) shake my head and mentally criticize. I looked down on them, assuming they were spoiled or entitled.

But then something happened that challenged my assumptions. One day, I was driving to UBC and my car broke down on Southwest Marine Drive. The clutch was shot. I had to push the car off the road to avoid a tow in the middle of traffic. So there I was, pushing my car, trying to make it to a side street. It was exhausting, and the incline made it even worse.

Out of nowhere, a young man came running down the road and offered to help. I gratefully accepted, and together we managed to push the car safely to the side. Afterward, I thanked him and explained I was late for a meeting at UBC. He said, “I’m going the other way, but I’ll drive you—it’s no problem.”

We walked toward his car… and it was a Lotus sports car. With an “N” on the back. One of those cars.

You can imagine how I felt. Here I had lumped all young drivers in fancy cars into one category, thinking nothing good could come from them. And yet it was one of them who helped me when I most needed it.

If we’re honest, many of us carry this tendency. We judge others based on the group they belong to—political parties, sports teams, religious styles. Even in the Church, we sometimes look down on fellow Catholics who practice differently or hold different views.

This tendency to divide and exclude is growing, especially in the age of social media. But it’s not new. In today’s Gospel, the parable of the Good Samaritan, Jesus addresses this very problem.

We know the story: a man is attacked and left for dead on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho. A priest and a Levite, both religious men who should have known better, pass him by. Then comes a Samaritan—a member of a group many Jews considered outsiders, heretics, impure. And it’s he who stops, tends to the man’s wounds, brings him to an inn, and pays for his care.

The shock of this parable is that Jesus holds up the Samaritan—the outsider—as the true example of God’s love in action. It's a direct challenge to anyone who assumes that goodness only exists within their own group. It’s a reminder that God's Spirit is at work far beyond the boundaries we like to draw.

This parable should stir our consciences. Do we, like I did, judge entire groups as being unworthy of our attention or respect? Jesus invites us to see that love of neighbour goes beyond social categories, and that sometimes, the people we least expect are the ones who act most faithfully.

And more than that, Jesus challenges us to be the Good Samaritan. To help others regardless of who they are.

Fred Rogers, the beloved children’s television host, shaped Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood around this Gospel story. A seminary-trained minister, he saw his show as a form of ministry—teaching children how to be neighbours. He often told a story from his childhood:

When he saw something scary on the news, his mother told him, “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.”

Those are the Good Samaritans. The ones Jesus wants us to notice—and to become.

So today, let us hear the challenge in Jesus’ words. Let the parable of the Good Samaritan make us just a little uncomfortable. Let it push us to tear down our inner walls of judgment and exclusion.

And above all, let us be the helpers.

Not Couch Potatoes, But Missionaries of Peace

 14 Sunday of Ordinary Time, Year C; Luke 10

Too often, the word missionary brings to mind flashy televangelists or social media influencers chasing followers—but Jesus sends out ordinary people like us to bring his peace to the world. We’re not meant to be “couch potato Christians,” but active participants in God’s mission, especially in our families, workplaces, and friendships. When we leave Mass, we’re not just dismissed—we’re sent to light up the world with peace, hope, and love.

Listen to homily here:

It seems that the idea of being a missionary has developed something of a bad reputation. Perhaps you've seen Christian missionaries on television—so-called televangelists. While some may be sincere, many can appear shallow, overly dramatic, or preoccupied with money and self-promotion. In today's world, this image has largely been replaced by social media influencers—preachers on TikTok or Instagram delivering flashy soundbites, often more focused on followers and sponsorships than faith and service. Understandably, “missionary” can sound like a tainted term.

But in light of today’s Gospel, we are invited to reconsider what it truly means to be a missionary, what it truly means to be an evangelist. Because what we see in the Gospel today is that each and every baptized person—not just clergy or religious—is sent out and called to be a missionary.

Jesus sends out not only the Twelve, his closest followers, but a broader group of seventy-two disciples to go ahead of him and prepare the way. In the same way, each one of us is sent on a mission. We are not merely spectators or passive participants. We are missionaries.

Pope Francis, early in his pontificate, captured this idea with one of his now well-known expressions: he warned us not to become “couch potato Christians.” In a homily on this very Gospel, he reminded us that faith is not about spiritual comfort or passivity. Yes, we must come to Mass and pray—but we are also sent to bring Christ to the world. In that, Pope Francis was simply echoing the teaching of the Second Vatican Council.

In Lumen Gentium, the Dogmatic Constitution on the Church, the Council states:

“The laity are called to engage in the apostolate by virtue of their baptism and confirmation. They are consecrated for the royal priesthood and the holy people of God... It is the special vocation of the laity to seek the kingdom of God by engaging in temporal affairs and directing them according to God's will.” (LG §33)

This passage makes three essential points:

1. We are all sent—every baptized person has received a mission;

2. Our mission is not confined to church walls—it is carried out in families, workplaces, schools, and everyday relationships;

3. We are called to be active, not passive, in the life of the Church.

So how can we reclaim the word “missionary”? How can we live out this calling authentically, without falling into the stereotypes we sometimes see in media?

The Gospel gives us guidance.

First, Jesus tells the disciples: “Carry no money bag, no sack, no sandals.” This is not just about traveling light—it’s a call to focus on what truly matters. In our modern world, we often chase possessions, wealth, and material security. But being a missionary means shifting that focus toward what is eternal: our relationships with God, with others, and especially with those in need.

A friend of mine often says, whenever financial stress arises: “Well, in the end, it’s all God’s money.” That perspective is freeing. It reminds us that we are stewards, not owners—that what matters most is how we love, how we serve, how we give.

Second, and finally, Jesus sends his followers as missionaries of peace. The very first instruction he gives them is this: “When you enter a house, say, ‘Peace to this household.’” That’s our task: to bring peace wherever we go.

You’ve probably heard the phrase, “She lights up a room.” It’s said of someone whose presence brings hope and joy to others. What a beautiful way to describe a Christian missionary: someone who, just by their presence, radiates warmth, kindness, encouragement, and peace.

But we might also ask: when I enter a room, what do I bring? Do I bring peace—or something else? Do I bring gossip, criticism, negativity—or do I carry the peace of Christ?

At the end of every Mass, the words of dismissal are clear: “Go forth, the Mass is ended.” We are sent. We have been nourished, yes—but also commissioned. And when we exchange the sign of peace, it is not merely a ritual gesture. It is a reminder of our mission.

So today, as we exchange that sign of peace, let it be with intention. Let it remind us that we are taking on both a responsibility and a joy: to be Christ’s missionaries, sent into the world to carry his peace, his light, and his love to everyone we meet.

More Than Statues: Saints Who Struggle With Us

 St. Peter and St. Paul

Saints Peter and Paul aren’t lifeless statues in a museum—they’re real people who fell, failed, and followed Jesus anyway. Their greatness didn’t come from perfection, but from perseverance: they got back up, again and again, through God’s grace. They’re not distant heroes—they’re family, cheering us on in our own journey of faith.

Listen to homily here:

You might have noticed the large statue of St. Peter at the entrance of the church, near the office. When I was a kid—some years ago (I won’t mention how many!)—I used to altar serve here often. We would prepare for Mass and then walk outside the church. Back then, before the parish office was built, there was just a sidewalk and a grassy area, and that statue of St. Peter stood on a tall pedestal. I remember walking past it every Sunday, quite literally looking up to St. Peter.

Growing up in this parish, I heard a lot about St. Peter—his importance in the early Church and as the patron of our parish. But over time, I began to see Peter as just that: a statue. Distant. Still. Lifeless. Sometimes we can think of the saints this way—as dusty figures in a museum, far removed from our lives. We forget that they were real people who struggled, just like we do. We might even assume the saints never doubted, failed, or got it wrong.

But today’s feast of Saints Peter and Paul invites us to see them not as distant museum pieces, but as close companions—members of our spiritual family. They are people who can encourage us and have something to teach us. Let’s take a closer look at their lives and see what they reveal to us today.

First, what was most central in both their lives was their relationship with Jesus. Each had a profound encounter with Christ that changed everything.

For Peter, this began when Jesus called him while he was fishing. Captivated by Jesus, Peter left his nets behind and followed Him. But Peter brought more than just his fishing experience. He had leadership skills—he ran a small business in Galilee, coordinating workers, selling fish, dealing with taxes and Roman authorities. After choosing to follow Jesus, Peter put all these gifts at the service of the Church.

Paul’s encounter with Jesus was different but just as life-changing. We read in Acts of the Apostles and in Paul’s letters that the risen Christ was revealed to him. After this encounter, Paul used all his abilities—his intellect, his passion, his creativity—to spread the Gospel, especially to the Gentiles. Paul was bold. He pushed boundaries, figuring out how the message of Jesus could reach those outside the Jewish world.

So both Peter and Paul made the same decision: to follow Christ and to offer Him everything.

But let’s not pretend they got everything right.

Take today’s Gospel. Jesus asks the disciples who people say He is. Peter answers with great clarity and conviction: “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” He gets it right! It’s a proud moment for our patron.

But keep reading.

Right after this, Jesus starts to explain that being the Messiah means He must go to Jerusalem, suffer, and die. Peter is horrified. He rebukes Jesus: “This cannot happen to you!” Jesus then rebukes Peter—harshly: “Get behind me, Satan!” Even though Peter recognized who Jesus was, he completely misunderstood what that meant.

Peter’s struggles didn’t stop there. When Jesus was arrested, Peter denied Him three times.

Paul had his own struggles too. Just read the first letter to the Corinthians. That community is in chaos. Paul is trying to correct them, guide them, and he’s clearly frustrated. At times, Paul comes across as intense, maybe even hot-headed. His letters show that he was far from perfect. He clashed with Peter at times. He made mistakes.

And yet, what made them saints wasn’t perfection. It was perseverance.

They fell, and they got back up—by God’s grace. They struggled, but they kept following Christ. In the end, both gave their lives for the Gospel.

In Rome, there are four major papal basilicas. Two of them—St. Peter’s and St. Paul Outside the Walls—are dedicated to the saints we celebrate today. They were built in the fourth century by Constantine over the burial places of Peter and Paul. These churches remind us of the cost of discipleship. Both saints were martyred under the persecution of Emperor Nero. But their story didn’t end with failure or fear—it ended in faith.

There’s a beautiful story from Peter’s later life. During Nero’s persecution, the early Christian community urged Peter to leave Rome and save himself. As he was leaving the city, Peter encountered a man on the road. He looked again and realized it was the risen Christ. Peter asked, “Quo vadis, Domine?”—“Where are you going, Lord?” Jesus replied, “I am going to Rome to suffer again with my people.” Peter understood. He turned around and returned to the city, choosing to remain with the suffering Church. That decision ultimately led to his martyrdom.

Dear friends, Peter and Paul are not distant statues. They are not museum relics. They are flesh-and-blood people who struggled, doubted, and made mistakes—but who never gave up on following Jesus.

They are family to us, walking with us, cheering us on, interceding for us. As the Letter to the Hebrews says, “We are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses.”

So today, on this feast of our patrons, let us ask their intercession. May we, like Peter and Paul, focus our lives on our relationship with Jesus. May we use all our gifts in service to the Gospel. And when we fall—as we surely will—may we get back up and continue the journey of faith, loving God and serving our neighbour.

More Than Bread: The Mystery and Mission of Corpus Christi

 Corpus Christi 2025

At every Mass, we affirm a bold belief—that Jesus is truly present in the Eucharist. This mystery invites not only faith in Christ’s Real Presence but a call to live as his Body in the world. Corpus Christi reminds us that the Eucharist is both a sacred gift and a mission of love that Christ continues through us.

Listen to homily here:

Every time we come to Mass, we participate in a special ritual. We walk down the aisle toward the priest or Eucharistic minister—perhaps to receive a blessing, but more often to receive the Eucharist. The minister holds up a small host and says, “The Body of Christ.” We respond, “Amen,” a word derived from Hebrew meaning “truly” or “so be it.”

In that brief and simple interaction, we come face to face with one of the greatest mysteries of our Catholic faith: that small host is truly the Body of Jesus Christ. Today, as we celebrate the Solemnity of Corpus Christi—the Body and Blood of our Lord—we are invited to reflect deeply on this mystery.

It’s important to acknowledge that belief in the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist is not always easy. Surveys in recent years have highlighted this challenge. One such study, conducted by the CARA Institute at Georgetown University—a Catholic research center—found that only about two-thirds of Catholics believe that Jesus is truly present in the Eucharist. This is a difficult and demanding belief.

One way we can approach this mystery and perhaps dispel misconceptions is to return to the Church’s teaching on transubstantiation. Though the word might sound technical or outdated, it offers a helpful insight. Transubstantiation refers to our belief that during the consecration at Mass, the substance of the bread and wine becomes the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ. While the outward appearance, taste, and smell remain unchanged, something fundamental—the substance—has been transformed.

This concept, drawn from ancient and medieval philosophical thought, reminds us that what is most essential in the Eucharist is not what we perceive with our senses, but what we trust by faith. We believe the bread and wine become Jesus because he told us so, and Jesus is trustworthy. In today’s second reading from 1 Corinthians, we hear Paul recount Christ’s words at the Last Supper: “This is my Body… this is my Blood.” Our faith is rooted in these words.

To help strengthen this faith, the Church has also preserved stories of Eucharistic miracles—extraordinary signs throughout history that testify to the Real Presence. One of the oldest occurred in the eighth century, when a monk celebrating Mass in Europe was struggling with doubt. During the consecration, the host and the wine were said to have turned visibly into human flesh and blood. Centuries later, in the 1970s, these relics were examined and confirmed to be of human origin.

Another such event occurred in the 13th century. Again, a priest doubted the Real Presence, and during Mass, the host began to bleed, staining the altar cloth. When the pope at the time, Urban IV, heard of the event, he instituted the feast of Corpus Christi to refocus the Church on the gift and mystery of the Eucharist.

While belief in such miracles is not required, they can support our faith. Ultimately, we believe in the Eucharist because Jesus said: “This is my Body.” Our trust is in his word.

Yet our faith in the Eucharist doesn’t end there. We are also called to believe that Jesus is present in our community. As St. Paul reminds the Corinthians, the Church itself is the Body of Christ. In his letter, Paul addresses troubling divisions within the community—particularly between the rich and the poor. Some were using the celebration of the Eucharist to exclude or elevate themselves over others. Paul points out that this contradicts the very meaning of the Eucharist, which is Christ’s self-gift, offered in love for all.

He challenges the Corinthians—and us—not only to receive the Body of Christ but to become the Body of Christ. The Eucharist is not simply something we consume; it is something we are called to live. It is both mystery and mission. When we receive the Eucharist, we are united with Christ and with one another, and we are sent to continue his mission of love in the world.

This, too, requires faith. It is not always easy to believe that Jesus works through us. We may feel unworthy, overwhelmed, or unsure what we can offer. The challenges we face in our families, workplaces, or communities may seem far beyond what we can handle.

But in today’s Gospel, Jesus teaches us something essential. When the disciples tell Jesus to send the crowds away for food, he replies, “You give them something to eat.” They have very little—just a few loaves and fish—but Jesus takes their humble offering and multiplies it. With it, he nourishes thousands.

This is what Christ does with us. He takes whatever we offer—our time, our gifts, our love—and he transforms it to bless others. When we act in service, when we respond with compassion, Jesus is present and active through us.

So today, as we say Amen to the Body of Christ, let us do so with renewed faith. Let us affirm these three great truths:

1. Christ is truly present in the Eucharist.

2. Christ is truly present in our community—the Church.

3. Christ is truly at work in each one of us, using our gifts to bring healing, grace, and peace to the world.

This is the mystery of the Eucharist. And it is our mission.

Success in God's Eyes: Made for Relationship

 Holy Trinity, 2025

We often measure success by achievements, wealth, or status, but Trinity Sunday invites us to see ourselves through God’s eyes. Created in the image of the Triune God—a perfect communion of love—we are made for relationship. Our true success lies not in what we possess, but in how we love and are loved.

Listen to homily here:

Throughout our lives, we go through many forms of evaluation. When we’re in school, we receive report cards that assess our academic progress. Later in life, we might receive performance reviews at work that evaluate how we’re doing in our jobs. These evaluations—helpful as they often are—invite us to think about what it means to be, in a sense, a “successful” human being.

But what does that really mean? What does it mean to live well as a human person? Our answer to that question depends on our understanding of what a human being is—and what we are for. Some might say that success is measured by wealth, power, achievement, or pleasure. Others might focus on status or reputation. Our culture offers competing visions of the “good life,” and behind each vision is a different idea of what it means to be human.

To illustrate this, imagine standing in an art gallery in front of a beautiful painting of a person. Critics gather around, discussing brushstrokes, composition, and symbolism. Each person offers a theory about the artist’s intent. But then imagine the artist himself walks into the room. He listens for a while, then finally speaks: “I painted this to represent someone I love.”

Suddenly, the room quiets. Everyone wants to hear from the artist, because he alone knows the true meaning of the work.

In much the same way, if we are each made in the image of God—as we believe—then it is God, the Creator, who reveals to us what it truly means to be human. And today, on Trinity Sunday, we are invited to consider this: Who is God? And therefore, in whose image have we been made?

The doctrine of the Trinity is profound—one God in three persons: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. At first, this might seem like theological “fine print,” something abstract or mysterious. But it’s not just a mystery to be admired; it’s a truth that shapes how we understand ourselves. Because we are made in the image of this triune God, the Trinity tells us something essential about what it means to be human.

One of the most important insights about the Trinity is that God exists as a perfect communion of love. The Father is not the Son, the Son is not the Spirit, and yet they are one in essence, united in an eternal relationship of love. The distinctions between them are found only in how they relate to one another.

This teaches us something powerful: in God, identity is rooted in relationship. And if we are created in the image of this God, then we, too, are created for relationship.

What defines us most deeply is not our possessions, our titles, or our achievements—but our capacity to give and receive love. To be a human being is to be made for communion: to live in relationship with others, to serve, to forgive, to belong.

This perspective shifts how we evaluate our lives. The question is no longer just “What have I achieved?” but “Whom have I loved, and how have I loved them?” Our relationships—especially the ones that require effort, patience, and grace—become the true measure of our humanity.

So as we reflect on this great feast of the Holy Trinity, let us ask the Holy Spirit to place on our hearts one relationship in particular where we are being invited to grow—perhaps a relationship that’s strained, neglected, or difficult. Trinity Sunday reminds us that our deepest calling is to love as God loves: faithfully, selflessly, and in communion with others.

At the end of our lives, we won’t be remembered by our resumes or bank accounts. What will matter most is the quality of our relationships—the love we gave and received. Let us strive to live in that image more fully today.

Speaking the Language the World Longs to Hear

 Pentecost 2025

At Pentecost, the Holy Spirit enables people of different nations to understand one another, reversing the division of Babel and forming one united family of God. Through Confirmation, we are anointed to speak Christ’s language of peace—a language that transcends words and is expressed through love, understanding, and service. In a world marked by division and conflict, we are called to be people who embody and share this peace.

Listen to homily here:

Language is such an important thing. Consider for a moment if you've ever had to learn a new language—how difficult it can be to communicate, how easy it is to experience misunderstandings, and how excluded you can feel when you're in a place where you don’t speak the language.

For some years, I lived in different places while studying or doing pastoral work in Mexico and Italy. I had a little trick I thought was clever when I was learning the language. I’d be speaking with someone—often an elderly woman at a parish—and if I didn’t understand what she was saying, I’d just nod my head and say, “Sí, sí,” over and over. That worked a few times—until one day, the woman stopped and said, “You haven’t understood a word I’m saying, have you?” She was absolutely right. It happened more than once, I’m ashamed to say!

Language is powerful. When we struggle to speak it, it can create barriers. But when we share a language and can communicate with one another, it creates unity. It brings us together.

This theme of language is central to today’s celebration of Pentecost. Luke, in the Acts of the Apostles, tells us that the Holy Spirit descended upon the followers of Christ in the form of tongues of flame. Tongues, of course, are what we use to speak. The imagery is intentional. At Pentecost, the gift of the Spirit is given in a form that represents communication.

In fact, Pentecost reverses an earlier event in Scripture that also involved language: the Tower of Babel in the Book of Genesis. There, humanity had been united in one language but turned away from God. In response, God confused their speech, and they could no longer understand one another. This ancient account—more a theological reflection than historical report—suggests that division in language led to disunity, miscommunication, and even conflict.

Now, look at what happens at Pentecost. Peter, filled with the Holy Spirit, begins to preach. He still speaks his own language, yet everyone gathered—Jews from every nation—can understand him. Pentecost was a major pilgrimage feast for the Jewish people, who came to remember how God gave the Law through Moses and formed them into one people. Now, Peter proclaims a new covenant through Christ, and the Holy Spirit forms an even larger family of God.

The division of languages is no longer a barrier. The Holy Spirit unites all who hear. Everyone understands. The message is clear: the Holy Spirit creates unity, forms communion, and builds one family across every boundary.

We could go even further and say: when we receive the Holy Spirit, we all begin to speak a common language—the language of Christ. And the language of Christ is peace and love.

This comes across clearly in today’s Gospel. Jesus appears to his disciples in the upper room—where they are fearful and anxious—and his first words are: “Peace be with you.” He says it again. Peace is the language Jesus speaks.

But this peace is not simply the absence of violence. It is much deeper. In Hebrew, shalom means wholeness, harmony, completeness. It is the peace that begins in the human heart. It spreads to our relationships, our families, our workplaces, our parishes. It allows us to listen to one another, understand each other, and work together. It is a peace expressed in kindness, service, and love.

This is the peace that we are sent to speak in the world. At our Confirmation, we are sealed with the gift of the Holy Spirit. The bishop or priest says, “Be sealed with the gift of the Holy Spirit,” and then adds, “Peace be with you.” Our first words as newly confirmed Christians are words of peace.

We are also anointed with chrism oil, a mixture of olive oil and fragrant balsam blessed at the Chrism Mass. This perfumed oil is a sign of the Spirit’s presence and mission. In the Old Testament, those who were anointed—prophets, priests, and kings—were always sent out for a purpose. In the same way, our anointing at Confirmation is a sending. We are called to go into the world and speak the language of Jesus.

And this language is so desperately needed today—in a world filled with violence, polarization, misunderstanding, and division. We are called to be people of peace, people who listen, who build bridges, who foster unity with gentleness and strength.

As we celebrate Pentecost, the descent of the Holy Spirit, let us remember our own Confirmation. We have been sealed. We have been sent. Let us speak, wherever we are and in whatever language we use, the language of Christ: a language of peace and love.

This is the language the world is yearning to hear.

Light After the Clouds

 Ascension

Separation from loved ones is painful, and the Ascension reminds us that even Jesus' followers knew that grief. Yet Christ has not abandoned us—his Spirit remains like sunlight after the sun has set, warming, guiding, and sustaining us. Through the Holy Spirit, we become Christ’s living presence in the world, continuing his mission with our hands, our voices, and our lives.

Listen to homily here:

As you came into the church today, you may have noticed our new 2025 Photo Directories available at the entrance. And while this is, yes, a bit of an advertisement to pick up your copy, it's much more than that. Flipping through the directory, you’ll see a beautiful snapshot of our parish family. You’ll notice that here at St. Peter’s, we come from all over the world—many different cultures, countries, and experiences. This diversity brings such richness and blessing to our community.

Many in our parish are newcomers—people who have left their homeland, their way of life, and loved ones behind to begin anew. With that comes not only the excitement of a fresh start but also the pain of separation: being far from people who were central to your life.

This sense of separation is something we also encounter in today’s liturgy, as we celebrate the Feast of the Ascension. At first, the Ascension might seem like a strange thing to celebrate. But it deeply connects to our experience, especially for those who know the ache of being far from loved ones. We can imagine how the followers of Jesus must have felt. They had walked with him, followed him, placed all their hope in him. They witnessed his suffering and death—the shattering of their dreams—and then, against all expectation, the joy of his resurrection and the wonder of those days with the risen Lord. And now, once again, Jesus is leaving.

The Gospel tells us Jesus ascends into heaven. He is no longer physically with his disciples. That must have been incredibly painful. Like us, they wanted to reach out, to sit with him, to hear his voice, to feel his presence. His departure left them in uncertainty about what was to come.

And yet—Jesus does not leave them alone. As he prepares to ascend, he promises that they will be “clothed with power from on high.” He speaks of the coming of the Holy Spirit, who will dwell within his followers. In ascending, Christ does not abandon his Church—he makes way for a new kind of presence.

We will celebrate Pentecost next week, but already today, we begin to consider: What is the Holy Spirit like? How does the Spirit act in our lives?

One image that might help is the sun. The sun is visible and powerful—something we can see and feel. In this way, it's like Christ during his earthly life. But even when the sun is hidden behind clouds or below the horizon, its light remains. We still see, we still feel its warmth. Light is hard to grasp, yet we know it’s real. In the same way, the Holy Spirit is like that light—radiant, mysterious, life-giving. The Spirit helps us see, gives us warmth, brings us peace and joy.

Here at St. Peter’s, I often think of this when I see the sunlight streaming through our stained-glass windows—especially in the late afternoon. The church is bathed in beautiful colours, transformed by light. The Holy Spirit does the same in our lives: quietly, beautifully illuminating, transforming, and comforting us.

Christ remains truly present with us in the Spirit. We encounter him especially in the sacraments—most profoundly in the Eucharist. We hear his voice in Scripture. And we see him in one another, gathered as the Body of Christ. Through the Spirit, we are not abandoned—we are equipped, empowered, and sent.

But why did Jesus need to leave? Why the Ascension?

Perhaps one reason is this: if Christ had remained physically with us, we might have always depended on him to act. Instead, in love, he entrusts us with his mission. The Church is now his hands and feet in the world.

An example that illustrates this comes from the lives of St. Ignatius of Loyola and St. Francis Xavier. Ignatius, the founder of the Jesuits, longed to be a missionary himself, to travel to distant lands. But he remained in Rome to organize and lead the new community. It was his friend and follower, Francis Xavier, who carried the mission forward—traveling to India, Japan, and beyond to proclaim the Gospel. Ignatius formed the vision; Xavier fulfilled it.

So too with Christ and his Church. The Acts of the Apostles, which we read from today, tells the story of how Jesus’ followers, filled with the Holy Spirit, continued his mission.

Yes, we live in a world where Christ may seem distant. But we live in the light of his promise—the gift of the Holy Spirit. Through that Spirit, we are transformed and empowered to become his presence in the world.

I’d like to end with a prayer often attributed to St. Teresa of Ávila, one that expresses this mystery beautifully:

Christ has no body now but yours,
No hands, no feet on earth but yours.
Yours are the eyes with which he looks with compassion on this world.
Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good.
Yours are the hands with which he blesses all the world.
Christ has no body now on earth but yours.

May we, filled with the Spirit, truly become the Body of Christ in the world.

Catching the Wind: The Holy Spirit and the Church in Transition

 6 Sunday Easter

The Church is journeying through a time of transition, both locally with a new archbishop and globally with a new pope. Amid these changes, the Gospel reminds us that the Holy Spirit is the constant guide—like the wind that moves the Church forward, even through uncertainty. Let us reflect on how to become more attentive to the Spirit’s presence through silence, Scripture, and discerning the fruits of our choices.

Listen to podcast here:

This past Friday evening, I had the opportunity to attend the installation Mass for our new archbishop, Archbishop Richard Smith. It was a new and striking experience for me.

The cathedral was packed—filled with priests, bishops from across the region, and even the papal nuncio, the pope’s representative to Canada. But before the Mass began, there was a ritual I had never seen before. All the priests were gathered outside the front doors of the cathedral, and those big wooden doors were shut tight. Then Archbishop Smith approached, and someone handed him a wooden mallet. He took it and knocked—three loud, deliberate strikes on the doors. From inside, Archbishop Miller—who until that point had been our archbishop—opened the doors and welcomed him in.

It was a powerful gesture: a symbol of Archbishop Smith’s willingness to serve and of his entry into his cathedral. The word cathedral comes from the Latin cathedra, meaning chair—the symbolic seat of the bishop’s teaching authority and pastoral leadership.

As the Mass continued, there were other rich symbols. At one point, a priest held up a large scroll, written in Latin calligraphy, the official declaration—or bull—from Pope Francis, naming Archbishop Smith as our new archbishop.

We are living through a time of transition in our local Church. Archbishop Miller has passed the torch to Archbishop Smith, our new shepherd. And on a global scale, we’ve experienced another major transition: mourning the death of Pope Francis and welcoming with hope our new Holy Father, Pope Leo.

These changes are significant. Even during the Eucharistic Prayer, I’ve had to remind myself who to name—"Leo… Richard…"—I’ve taken to putting Post-it notes on the pages to keep it straight!

Change in leadership brings a mixture of emotions. There’s hope and excitement, but also some sadness, perhaps some uncertainty.

In today’s Gospel, we hear something similar unfolding. The disciples are with Jesus during what’s known as his “farewell discourse” in John’s Gospel—his final words to them after the Last Supper. Jesus knows he is about to die, rise, and return to the Father. He is preparing his friends to carry on without his physical presence. And so he speaks words of comfort and promise: “Do not let your hearts be troubled.” “I will not leave you orphaned.” “I will send the Advocate.”

As we live through our own time of transition in the Church, the image that has stayed with me is the ancient one of the Church as a boat. And in these days, we are welcoming new captains to that boat.

This image of the Church as a boat is very old. In the catacombs of Rome, among the earliest Christian art, you’ll find simple depictions of boats—symbols of the Church making its way through the waters of history. Even in the Old Testament, Noah’s Ark is a type of the Church: a vessel of salvation carrying God’s people through the storm. In the New Testament, many of Jesus’ disciples—Peter, Andrew, James, John—were fishermen. Peter had a boat. And so the Church has often been called “the Barque of Peter,” a boat journeying through time.

Even Church architecture echoes this. The central area where the assembly sits is called the nave, from the Latin navis, meaning ship. So right now, all of us are literally sitting in the boat of the Church.

Leadership may shift, captains may change, but Jesus makes something clear in the Gospel today: we are not left alone. The Holy Spirit is given to us—the Advocate, the Paraclete, the one who walks with us. The Holy Spirit is the guiding wind that drives the Church forward.

If the Church is a boat, it is not a motorboat. It’s a sailboat. And the wind in the sails is the Holy Spirit. In Greek, the word for Spirit is pneuma, meaning breath or wind. In Genesis, the Spirit hovers over the waters at creation. At Pentecost, the Spirit comes as a mighty wind. The Spirit is not static—it moves, it surprises, it leads.

So how do we “catch the wind” of the Spirit in our lives? How do we raise our sails?

Let me offer three simple ways:

First, we need silence. In the story of the prophet Elijah, God is not found in the earthquake or fire but in the still, small voice. The Holy Spirit often speaks quietly—through peace, through a nudge, through consolation. Creating moments of silence each day helps us hear.

Second, we need Scripture. The Spirit speaks through the Word of God—not just as information, but as transformation. We can pray before we read, “Holy Spirit, speak to me.” And then listen—pay attention to what strikes you, comforts you, challenges you.

Third, we grow through discernment—paying attention to the fruits. When we face choices, we can ask: Does this lead to more love? More peace? More joy? Jesus said we know the tree by its fruits. And so, too, the Spirit’s guidance will bear good fruit.

These are ways we learn to steer, to tack, to let the wind fill our sails. As a child, I learned a bit of sailing, and it took time to learn how to catch the wind properly—to read its direction, adjust the sail, and respond. Life in the Spirit is the same.

Yes, this is a time of transition. But it is also a time of grace. Jesus promised us that the Spirit would remain with the Church—and with each of us. That Spirit is alive. It is Christ’s own breath in us, his presence among us, his power guiding us forward.

So as we draw closer to Pentecost, may our hearts be open to that Spirit once again. May we listen, may we read, may we discern—so that we, too, can catch the wind and journey forward in hope.

Amen.

“Are We There Yet?”: Living the Journey of Faith

 5 Sunday of Easter

Like children on a long road trip, Christians often ask, “Are we there yet?” as we wait for the fullness of Christ’s victory. This homily explores the tension of living in the “already but not yet”—trusting in the resurrection while still confronting suffering. Grounded in the hope of Revelation and the command to love, we are reminded by both Scripture and Pope Leo that we are pilgrims of hope, walking together toward the new creation.

 

Listen to homily here:

 

Are We There Yet?
This is something I often said as a kid on long road trips with my parents. "Are we there yet?" I’d complain, even though I knew where we were going. I was eager to get there, but the drive always felt too long. I think that’s an experience many of us can relate to. Road trips can be exciting because of the destination, but the journey can feel uncomfortable, slow, and uncertain. That same question—Are we there yet?—can also arise in the Christian life.

On the one hand, we believe with firm conviction that Jesus Christ is risen from the dead. We celebrate this at Easter, and we see the Easter candle in front of us as a sign of his victory: life over death, love over sin, good over evil. And yet, when we look at the world around us, we might not always experience that victory. Wars, violence, and disasters continue. We think of the war in Ukraine, the suffering in Gaza, and tragedies closer to home—sickness, unemployment, broken relationships. In the face of so much pain, we may find ourselves asking: Has the resurrection really changed anything? Are we there yet?

This tension lies at the heart of Christian faith. We live in what theologians sometimes call the "already but not yet." Christ is already risen. We have already received the Holy Spirit. We already share in the new life he gives. But the fullness of that life is not yet complete. We still await his return—his parousia—when his victory will be brought to completion. This tension is beautifully expressed in today’s second reading from the Book of Revelation.

Revelation was written near the end of the first century, during a brutal persecution of Christians under the Emperor Domitian. Christians were suffering terribly because they refused to worship the emperor or participate in pagan rituals. They, too, were asking: Are we there yet? Where is Jesus? Has his resurrection changed anything if we’re still suffering?

In the midst of that struggle, the author of Revelation offers hope: "See, I am making all things new." We are promised a new heaven and a new earth, a future in which every tear will be wiped away. That is our destination. Christ has already begun this new creation, but we wait in hope for its fulfillment.

This hope is echoed in one of the earliest Christian prayers recorded in Revelation: Maranatha!—“Come, Lord Jesus!” It is the cry of a people who live in the in-between, longing for the fullness of redemption.

But how do we live in this "already but not yet"? How do we walk as Christians on this journey? Today’s Gospel gives us the answer. Jesus, in his farewell discourse at the Last Supper, gives his followers the heart of his teaching: "Love one another as I have loved you." This is the guiding principle for our journey. Love—sacrificial, Christ-like love—is the road we are called to walk.

Earlier today, many of you may have seen coverage of the inauguration Mass for our new Holy Father, Pope Leo. Over 200,000 people gathered in Rome to witness the beginning of his papal ministry. In his homily, Pope Leo reflected on the readings we’ve heard today. He reminded us that we, too, are on a journey—and that he wants to walk with us. He spoke about how this journey is guided by the law of love, a love that is not abstract, but sacrificial and concrete.

Pope Leo drew our attention to St. Peter, our parish patron, who learned over time how to love like Jesus. Peter, who once denied Christ, came to lay down his life in witness. The Holy Father also reminded us that we are to be a people of hope and unity, a sign to the world of what true love and communion look like. As pilgrims, Pope Leo said, we are called to be a beacon of what it means to love and to belong.

This message resonates deeply during this Jubilee Year, in which we are invited to be “Pilgrims of Hope.” That poster on our wall is not just a decoration—it’s a call. We are pilgrims, yes. We’re not there yet. But we are people who know our destination: the new heaven and the new earth. And we walk not alone, but together, with Christ at our side.

So let us renew our commitment today to the call Jesus gives in the Gospel. Let us journey as pilgrims—faithful, hopeful, united—and let us love one another as Christ has loved us.

A Shepherd for Our Time: Welcoming Pope Leo XIV

 Good Shepherd Sunday | 4 Sunday Easter

The surprise election of Pope Leo XIV invites us to reflect on the voice of the Good Shepherd still speaking to the Church today. From missionary service in Peru to leadership in Rome, Pope Leo brings a heart for the poor, a passion for justice, and a deep commitment to synodality. As we rejoice, we also take up his first request: pray for him.

Listen to homily here:

Do you remember where you were when you heard that white smoke was coming out of the Sistine Chapel chimney?

It was an exciting moment for me. I was here at the parish office that Thursday morning when my phone began blowing up with messages: “There’s white smoke!” I remembered from Pope Francis’s election that it would take about an hour or so—maybe a bit longer—between seeing the white smoke and seeing the new Holy Father presented on the balcony.

As the announcement drew near, some of our parish staff and parishioners gathered in the office, watching with growing expectation. Then, finally, the Master of Ceremonies emerged, parted the curtains, and announced the name of the new Pope. It was my chance to test my Latin… and I failed! I didn’t recognize the name right away. But then I heard it—Cardinal Prevost had been elected Pope, and he had taken the name Pope Leo.

Cardinal Robert Prevost, now Pope Leo XIV, stepped onto the balcony, and joy filled the square and spread throughout the world.

It feels providential that this historic moment took place just days before Good Shepherd Sunday. Every year on the Fourth Sunday of Easter, the Church reflects on Christ the Good Shepherd—the one who lays down his life for the sheep. The Pope, as the Vicar of Christ, is called to mirror that shepherding love in a unique way.

For many, Pope Leo’s election came as a surprise. I don’t know if any of you had money riding on the conclave—I certainly didn’t! While his name appeared on some lists, he wasn’t widely seen as a frontrunner. It felt like he came out of nowhere. But, of course, Pope Leo has a long journey behind him—a life of listening to the voice of Jesus, the Good Shepherd, and responding with generosity and service.

I was watching the coverage when an interview came on with one of Pope Leo’s older brothers, speaking from Chicago. It was a delightful, funny conversation. He shared that Pope Leo’s favourite baseball team is the White Sox and spoke warmly about their upbringing. Especially touching was what he said about their mother—how deeply she shaped her son’s faith and his desire to love God and neighbour. On this Mother's Day, it’s fitting to give thanks for the powerful influence that mothers and grandmothers so often have in drawing us to God.

Pope Leo discerned a vocation to the priesthood early in life and entered the Augustinian Order—a religious community founded by St. Augustine, one of the great doctors of the Church. The Augustinians are a mendicant order, like the Franciscans and Dominicans. Pope Leo studied at places like Villanova University and later served for many years as a missionary in Peru, teaching and working in parish ministry.

Eventually, his Augustinian community elected him as their global leader—a role he held for the maximum term of eight years. With Augustinian communities in over 50 countries, this was a significant responsibility and a sign of the deep trust his confreres had in his leadership and wisdom.

After his time as Prior General, Pope Francis called him to serve as Bishop of Chiclayo in Peru, a diocese marked by significant poverty. Again, his missionary heart was evident. Two years ago, Pope Francis called him back to Rome to lead the Dicastery for Bishops—a critical role that involves helping appoint bishops around the world. With this appointment, he was made a Cardinal.

And now, surprisingly, providentially, he is Pope Leo XIV.

What might we expect from our new Holy Father? While it is still early, there are already a few signs pointing to his priorities.

First, Pope Leo clearly has a missionary heart and a deep love for the poor. His life and ministry—especially in Peru—demonstrate his closeness to those on the margins. In this, he continues the legacy of Pope Francis, bringing the gospel to the peripheries and showing the compassion of Christ to those most in need.

Second, his choice of name is telling. Leo XIV deliberately echoes Leo XIII, who guided the Church through the upheavals of the Industrial Revolution and authored the encyclical Rerum Novarum, a foundational document of Catholic social teaching. In a recent speech, Pope Leo XIV suggested that today we are on the cusp of a new revolution—driven by technology, war, and especially artificial intelligence. He sees the need for the Church to respond to these new realities with a clear affirmation of human dignity and a renewed commitment to justice and truth.

Third, Pope Leo has expressed a strong desire for a Church in which every baptized person is valued. Continuing the path of synodality emphasized by Pope Francis—and what Pope Benedict called co-responsibility—he is calling us to journey together. From his first speech on the loggia, he made this vision clear by quoting St. Augustine: “For you, I am a bishop. But with you, I am a Christian.” These words affirm that all the baptized have a share in the life and mission of the Church.

Ultimately, Pope Leo will rely—as must we—on the guidance of the Holy Spirit. His election reminds us that God's plans are often unexpected. As we gathered here on Thursday and heard his name, I was struck by something Fr. Mahad said immediately: “The Holy Spirit!” What a beautiful and simple response. The Holy Spirit leads the Church.

Pope Leo’s coat of arms bears the motto: In the One, we are all one—again from St. Augustine. It reminds us that in God, we are united. We are one body in Christ, following Jesus the Good Shepherd together.

In that same interview, Pope Leo’s brother acknowledged the enormous burden his brother now carries. It is a weighty role, and the Pope himself has asked us to pray for him. So as we celebrate, let us also take seriously his request. Let us pray that Pope Leo will be a faithful shepherd, attuned to the Holy Spirit, as he leads us in love and truth.

May we all continue to walk together as disciples of Jesus Christ, the Good Shepherd, serving God and neighbour with joy.

Breakfast with Jesus: A Meal that Heals and Sends

 3 Sunday Easter

After the Resurrection, Jesus prepares a simple breakfast for Peter—not just to feed him, but to heal and restore their broken relationship. This powerful moment at a charcoal fire mirrors the Eucharist, where Christ meets us in our pain, nourishes us, and sends us out with purpose. In a time of mourning and sorrow, we gather at the Lord’s table to be strengthened by his love and commissioned to bring healing to the world.

Listen to Homily Here  

“Breakfast with the Risen Lord: A Meal of Healing and Mission”

Something that is very universal across all cultures, places, and times is this: we love to share meals together. Whether as families or as communities, we gather for meals to mark important moments, to enjoy one another’s company, and to strengthen our bonds. We do this here in our parish family as well—celebrating with food, laughter, and shared time.

But we know that when we gather to eat, it’s never just about food. Meals are not only for physical nourishment. Meals build relationships. They strengthen community. They offer comfort and connection. We gather for meals to celebrate life’s joyful milestones—like weddings or baptisms—but we also come together during difficult times, like when a loved one is in the hospital or when we are grieving. In such moments, eating together becomes an act of mutual support and healing.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus prepares a meal for Simon Peter. And once again, we see that this meal is not just about food. Jesus doesn’t simply want to fill Peter’s stomach—he wants to restore his heart. This breakfast by the sea is a moment of healing and reconciliation.

Let’s look more closely at where this meal happens. As we heard, Jesus prepares breakfast on the shore around a charcoal fire. That detail might seem small, but it’s powerful. The phrase “charcoal fire” appears only twice in the entire New Testament. The first time is in John’s Passion account, when Peter warms himself near a charcoal fire while Jesus is on trial. It is at that fire that Peter denies Jesus three times.

Now, after the Resurrection, here is Jesus again—by a charcoal fire, inviting Peter to breakfast. The symbolism is unmistakable. For each of Peter’s three denials, Jesus now gives him a chance to affirm his love: “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” This meal becomes a moment of deep healing. Jesus forgives Peter. He restores their friendship. He brings Peter back to life—not just spiritually, but in mission and purpose.

This meal is about reconciliation, about healing a wounded relationship. And this meal becomes for us a profound image of the Eucharist.

We gather today for the Eucharist, which is the greatest meal Jesus offers us. It is not just bread and wine. It is his very Body and Blood, given so that we may be healed, strengthened, and restored. Like Peter, we come with our imperfections, our sins, our pain—and Jesus meets us where we are. He feeds us. He forgives us. He sends us out.

At this moment, our community is in particular need of this healing. We are mourning. Just over a week ago, our city was struck by tragedy during the Lapu Lapu Day celebration. Many lives were lost. Many were injured. Many families are grieving, including here in our own parish community. There is pain. There is sorrow. There is confusion.

And so we gather—just as the disciples did—to be fed by Jesus. In this Eucharist, we ask him to heal us, to comfort us, to strengthen us. In this moment of shared mourning, we turn to the table of the Lord to draw close to one another and to the Risen Christ. Just as Jesus restored Peter at the lakeshore, he wants to restore us—bring us back to life, renew our hope, and give us the strength to go forward.

But the Gospel doesn’t end with healing. Jesus doesn’t just forgive Peter—he sends him. Each time Peter says, “Lord, you know I love you,” Jesus responds with a command: “Feed my sheep.” This is the natural consequence of love. When we receive the healing of Christ, we are called to become healers. The Eucharist is not only for our comfort—it is for mission.

A beautiful example of this is St. Teresa of Calcutta. She and her sisters are renowned for their service to the poorest of the poor. But what many people don’t realize is that before they went out to serve each day, they began with Mass. They received the Eucharist—Christ’s presence and strength—so they could go and bring his love to others.

Jesus knows we are weak. He knows we struggle. But he still chooses us. He meets us where we are, and he sends us out to love.

There’s a beautiful detail in the Gospel that doesn’t fully come through in English. In the original Greek, the words Jesus and Peter use for “love” have different meanings. Jesus first asks Peter, “Do you love me with agape love?”—a word that means self-sacrificing, unconditional love. But Peter responds with a different word: “Lord, you know I love you as a friend”—using the word philia, which means affectionate love between friends.

Twice, Jesus asks for agape, and twice Peter responds with philia. Then, the third time, Jesus changes his question. He meets Peter where he is: “Do you love me as a friend?” And Peter answers: “Lord, you know I love you as a friend.”

This moment reveals so much about the heart of Jesus. He calls us to a high ideal—to love with the total, self-giving love of agape. But when we fall short, he doesn’t reject us. He meets us in our weakness. He takes the love we can offer and still entrusts us with his mission.

And so, too, with us. We may feel tired, unsure, grieving, or imperfect. But Jesus meets us in the Eucharist. He restores us. He calls us. And he sends us.

At the end of every Mass, we hear the dismissal: “Go forth, the Mass is ended,” or “Go in peace, glorifying the Lord by your life.” This is not just a way of saying the liturgy is over. It’s a mission statement. We are sent out to love, to serve, to feed others as we have been fed.

So today, let us ask Jesus for healing, for strength, and for the grace to respond to his love. Let us pray that the Eucharist we receive may restore us, as it did Peter. And let us pray for the Holy Spirit to fill us with courage, so that we may go out—into a hurting world—to bring Christ’s love, healing, and hope to those who need it most.

The Mercy That Heals: Honouring Pope Francis and the Power of Christ’s Love

 Divine Mercy

In a world wounded by fear and division, Divine Mercy Sunday reminds us that Christ enters our locked doors with peace and healing. Pope Francis lived this message, teaching us that the Church is a field hospital where mercy welcomes and transforms. As we mourn his passing, we commit ourselves anew to being living instruments of God's mercy in the world.

Listen to homily here:

Homily for the Second Sunday of Easter (Divine Mercy Sunday)

Honoring the Life and Witness of Pope Francis

There is a story told about a monastery that had fallen into decline. The community of monks was aging, and the monastery itself was falling into disrepair. No new vocations were coming, and spiritually, the community was struggling. Years of living together had exposed their human frailties, and their patience with one another had worn thin. They began sniping at each other, becoming increasingly rude and harsh.

Recognizing the dire state they were in, the monks decided to seek counsel. They traveled to a nearby cave where an elderly hermit lived, and they poured out their troubles before him. The hermit listened and then said only this: "One of you is the Messiah." That was all he offered.

When the monks returned to their monastery, they pondered his words deeply. "One of us is the Messiah?" they thought. They didn’t know which one, but the mere possibility changed the way they treated each other. Each monk began to treat the others with new respect, kindness, and mercy — just in case he was the one.

Slowly but surely, the atmosphere of the monastery changed. Mercy replaced bitterness. Patience overcame judgment. Visitors began to notice the warmth and care among the monks. Over time, new novices joined, and the monastery was renewed — all because mercy had breathed life into a community that had been falling apart.

Today is Divine Mercy Sunday, and we celebrate the incredible power of God's mercy — the mercy that transforms hopelessness into hope, that brings life out of death. In today’s Gospel, the apostles are struggling with fear, locked away in a dark room. Yet the Risen Christ enters their fear, breathes upon them, and fills them with His peace and mercy.

As we continue to mourn the death of Pope Francis, we remember him today in a special way as a messenger of God's mercy.
I vividly recall when Pope Francis was first elected in 2013. At that time, I was serving as a deacon at St. Matthew’s Parish. When the white smoke appeared, we gathered all the students in the school gym to watch the announcement live. I remember vividly his first words: "Buona sera — Good evening." He then asked the crowd to pray for him, humbly beginning his papal ministry with a request for prayers rather than a proclamation of authority.

Hearing the news of his passing struck me with a deep sense of grief. It was hard to come to grips with the loss of someone who had journeyed with the Church in such a deeply pastoral and merciful way. I’m sure many of us feel that same sense of loss.
When someone we love passes away, it can feel like the apostles felt in today’s Gospel: locked away in a dark room of sadness, fear, and confusion.

And yet, the good news is this: Christ comes precisely into those dark rooms. Christ meets us in our grief. He doesn't wait for us to fix ourselves. He enters into our locked rooms, into our fears, and breathes His mercy and peace upon us.

This is the heart of Divine Mercy:
God’s heart beats with love for those who are suffering.
The word "mercy" itself comes from the Latin misericordia — meaning "a heart for the miserable." God loves all of us equally, but in a special way, He draws close to the wounded and the struggling.

In the Resurrection, Jesus rises with His wounds. He doesn't erase them. They are glorified. Why?
Because our wounds, our struggles, are not a barrier to God’s love. They are the very places where His mercy enters in and transforms us.
Christ is a Savior who does not stand apart from our pain — He bears it with us. He is, forever, the Risen One with wounds.

This was the path Pope Francis tried to walk. He constantly reminded us that the Church must be a "field hospital after battle" — a place where wounds are bound up, not a place reserved for the perfect.
The Church is not a museum for saints; it is a hospital for sinners.

At World Youth Day in Lisbon last year, Pope Francis said beautifully, "The Church is for everyone, tutti, tutti, tutti — everyone, everyone, everyone."
The doors of the Church must be open to all — especially to those most in need of mercy.

Pope Francis’s first journey as pope was not to the grand cathedrals of Europe, but to a tiny island called Lampedusa — a place many had never heard of. It was a major arrival point for migrants fleeing violence and poverty. There, Pope Francis celebrated Mass on an altar built from a refugee boat wreckage, honoring those who had died trying to seek a better life. In that act, he showed us what it means to extend God's mercy to the peripheries.

We, too, are called to be instruments of that mercy.

In the Gospel, Jesus meets Thomas in his doubt and weakness — not with condemnation, but with mercy.
He invites Thomas to touch His wounds, to believe again. Thomas’s faith is renewed, and tradition tells us that he became a great missionary, eventually traveling to India to spread the Gospel.

In the same way, God’s mercy transforms us — so that we, too, might go forth and extend mercy to others.
In our families, our parishes, and our communities, there are many locked doors and hidden wounds. By acts of patience, kindness, service, and forgiveness, we become living instruments of Divine Mercy.

Mercy breathes new life into dying communities. Mercy transforms fear into courage, bitterness into hope.

As we give thanks for the life and witness of Pope Francis, let us remember his words:

"Mercy is the force that reawakens us to new life and instills in us the courage to look to the future with hope."
(Misericordiae Vultus, §10)

May that mercy live in us today. Amen.

Keep the Flame Burning

 Easter Sunday

Easter reminds us that no matter how fierce the storms of life may be, the light of Christ’s resurrection can never be extinguished. Like lighthouse keepers, we are called to tend the flame of faith and shine it for others. In a world often clouded by fear and despair, we are pilgrims of hope, carrying the light that leads to life.

Listen to Homily here

Easter Homily: Keep the Flame Burning

There is an old story told about a lighthouse keeper. In the days before electricity, his job was to tend the flame at the top of the lighthouse on a remote and barren coast. The flame had to remain burning through the night, no matter the conditions, because if it went out, ships approaching the shore could be lost or destroyed. It was lonely work, but essential.

One weekend, a family member came to visit. That night, a terrible storm struck—winds howled and waves crashed violently against the cliffs. In the morning, the guest asked, “Weren’t you afraid the wind would blow out your light?” The lighthouse keeper replied simply, “The wind could blow all it wanted. My job wasn’t to fight the storm. My job was to keep the flame burning.”

Easter is all about hope. It is the victory of light over darkness, of life over death. Because of our faith in the resurrection, we are called to be like that lighthouse keeper. In baptism, we received the light of Christ—a flame we are called to carry into the world to give hope, to give direction. And like that keeper, it isn’t always easy. Each of us faces storms—grief, health struggles, fractured relationships, fear, anxiety, and loss. We don’t need to look far to find winds that try to blow out our light.

On Good Friday, the disciples of Jesus were scattered. Their hopes were crushed. Peter hid in fear. Only a few faithful women remained, hoping beyond hope as they approached the tomb. But on Easter morning, everything changed. The tomb was empty. Mary Magdalene heard her name spoken by the risen Jesus—and suddenly, her sorrow was turned into joy.

The resurrection of Christ ignites a flame that no storm can extinguish. The Paschal candle, which stands before us today, is our lighthouse. It proclaims that Christ has conquered death, that His light still shines, and that we are never alone. Jesus is the true lighthouse keeper, and we are invited to follow Him—not in fear, but in faith.

Today, in this Jubilee Year, we are called to be Pilgrims of Hope. Hope is not naïve optimism. It is the quiet, steady flame that continues burning even in the darkest night. Pope Francis, in his Easter message this year—though unable to speak it himself due to illness—reminded us of the light we received at baptism. It is a small, gentle light, but one that must be kept alive. Easter is the time to strengthen that flame.

In a few moments, we will renew our baptismal promises. As I sprinkle the congregation with holy water—blessed last night at the Easter Vigil and used to baptize new members of our Church—remember the flame you were given. You were told to “receive the light of Christ.” That light calls us to reject the darkness: cynicism, bitterness, unforgiveness, despair. Instead, we are to embrace kindness, service, compassion, and above all, hope.

We are called to be lighthouse keepers—faithfully shining light for others. We are meant to give hope and direction amid the storms, to point others toward a different path—a path that leads to life.

Dear brothers and sisters, we are Pilgrims of Hope, and our hope is rooted in the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. His flame, His light, His life can never be extinguished. Let us pray that this Easter, His light will enter our hearts again, and that we, in turn, will become beacons of His hope, peace, and joy in the world.