Seeing the Good: The Choice of Gratitude

 28 Sunday of Ordinary Time

Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World” reminds us that gratitude isn’t naïve. It is  a choice to see the good even amid struggle. The grateful Samaritan in the Gospel shows that thanksgiving brings not only healing of the body but also of the heart. When we choose gratitude and become people others are grateful for, we don’t just see a wonderful world, we help create one.

Listen to homily here:

 

We are all probably familiar with the famous song “What a Wonderful World” by Louis Armstrong. Louis Armstrong released this song in 1967, a time of chaos and unrest, political unrest in the United States, civil unrest, and the Vietnam War. As a counterpoint to all this darkness and difficulty, Armstrong released a song that invited people to consciously search for the good that still exists in the world: “I see trees of green, red roses too. I see them bloom for me and you, and I think to myself, what a wonderful world.”

This song is not naïve optimism. It’s not ignoring the struggles of the world. It’s a choice—a deliberate decision to look for goodness, to see our blessings. And that theme of gratitude is something we are called to reflect on during this Thanksgiving long weekend. Gratitude matters. It’s what helps us to live differently, to see differently, to be people of hope.

We see the importance of gratitude also in the Gospel, where Jesus heals ten lepers, but only one returns to give thanks. That simple act of returning makes all the difference for that one man. Thanksgiving, even outside a religious context, is widely recognized as important. People say that gratitude is like a “life hack.” If you want to live more positively, more joyfully, you need to count your blessings, to show gratitude.

This idea isn’t new. The Roman writer Seneca once said, “Nothing is more noble than a grateful heart.” He saw that being thankful and recognizing the good in our lives was an act of nobility. In more recent times, the psychologist Brené Brown has written beautifully about the importance of gratitude. She says, “I don’t have to chase extraordinary moments to find happiness—it’s right in front of me if I’m paying attention and practising gratitude.” Gratitude helps us experience joy even in the midst of difficulties.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus shows us the spiritual importance of gratitude. Whenever I hear the story of the ten lepers, it strikes me that there are two healings happening. The first is the physical healing, which all ten experience—they are cleansed of their leprosy. But Jesus highlights something deeper. He praises the one who returns, who gives thanks. And significantly, it’s a Samaritan, someone looked down upon by others, whom Jesus holds up as the example.

That Samaritan was healed not just physically, but spiritually. He recognized that what he had received from Christ was pure gift. Gratitude begins with that recognition—that everything we have is grace. What we have in life is not simply earned or deserved; it’s given. When we live with that awareness, we live with more joy, optimism, and peace. Gratitude opens our eyes to grace. It helps us see that God truly is loving, that He cares for us personally.

So I’d like to invite us to take a moment of silence, just one minute, to think of two things we are grateful for. One might be something in your life right now—a person, an experience, something you’ve received. The other could be something connected to your faith—something in your spiritual life or in our parish community that you are thankful for. Let’s take that moment together now. 

(pause for one minute)

Taking that time to be grateful is a spiritual practice. As Louis Armstrong reminds us in his song, it’s not easy—it’s a choice. It’s much easier to notice what’s wrong, what’s missing, or what frustrates us. But when we make the decision to search for what is good, our hearts begin to change. When we see goodness and live in gratitude, we come to believe more deeply that Jesus is with us and cares for us.

As Christians, though, we are not called only to be grateful; we are also called to become people others are grateful for. It’s not enough to see the good—we are invited to be the good. To be the kind of people who bring gratitude into others’ lives. To be the ones who reach out to a friend who’s struggling, who call someone who’s lonely, who show kindness and generosity in the small moments of every day.

When we live that way, we don’t just sing “What a Wonderful World.” We help make it one.

Even If You Aren’t a Star, Shine Anyway

27 Sunday of Ordinary Time

God calls each of us to let His love and light shine through us, even when we feel ordinary or inadequate. Like Habakkuk, Timothy, and Paul, we are reminded that God works through our weakness, not in spite of it. Even if we aren’t stars, the Holy Spirit enables us to shine brightly in the world around us. 

Listen to homily here:

Soon after I was ordained a priest, I was serving in a parish where there was a family very talented in music. Every year, they would create and perform a musical in a large theatre as a fundraiser for charity.

For one of these productions, they tried to convince me to take part — just a small singing role. I apologize if I’ve told this story before; I can’t quite remember. I really didn’t want to do it, but they said, “Father, if you participate, we can sell more tickets. It’ll help raise more money for charity.”

So, they twisted my arm, and I agreed. It was very awkward for me — I don’t like getting in front of a crowd in that way — but I did it. I think it went okay.

After the performance, one of the parishioners — let’s just say she’s rather blunt — came up to me and said, “Father Day, it was so great that you participated in that musical because you showed people that you can still shine, even if you aren’t a star.”

I thought about that. “Okay,” I said, “thank you… I think.” But over time, that comment has stuck with me. You can still shine, even if you aren’t a star. That image has become meaningful for me because it captures a tension we all experience in the Christian life.

On the one hand, God calls us to an incredible mission — to assist those around us, to help, to serve, to shine the light of God’s love and peace on others. Yet, on the other hand, we know that we’re not always “stars.” We have our gifts and talents, but we also have weaknesses and shortcomings. That tension can hold us back. It can make us think we’re not enough, that maybe we shouldn’t even try.

But the truth is: we can still shine brightly, even if we aren’t stars.

This theme runs through today’s readings — people fulfilling God’s mission in spite of weakness, fear, or limitation, and God shining through them nonetheless.

In the first reading, we heard from the prophet Habakkuk — a name you don’t often hear at baptisms anymore! Maybe we should revive it: “Habakkuk, come in for dinner!” (Has a nice ring to it.)

Habakkuk lived about 600 years before Christ, in Jerusalem. His name means “the Lord speaks.” When you read his book, you realize he’s very aware of his own struggles and inadequacies — yet he still answers God’s call.

At that time, the Babylonian Empire was advancing, taking over one city after another. Habakkuk could see that Jerusalem was next. He knew the people were frightened and losing hope. His mission was to help them see that this crisis was a wake-up call — a time to focus again on what truly matters: their relationship with God and with one another.

Habakkuk proclaimed a message of trust: even if Babylon comes, the Lord will not abandon us. God will still be with us. And through that message, even in his weakness, Habakkuk let God’s light shine through him.

In the second reading, we hear St. Paul writing to Timothy — his young apprentice in ministry. You can tell, reading between the lines, that Timothy is struggling. He knows his mission, but he’s afraid. He doubts himself.

So Paul reminds him of the grace he received “through the laying on of hands” — an image of commissioning, of being given a mission. And Paul encourages him: it’s not about your strength, Timothy. It’s the Holy Spirit working in you.

Elsewhere, Paul describes this same tension beautifully: “We hold this treasure in earthen vessels.” In other words, we carry something infinitely precious — the Holy Spirit — in fragile, imperfect human containers. We are clay jars carrying divine light.

Paul’s message is simple: Go. Do your mission. Don’t be afraid. God will shine through you.

And finally, in the Gospel, Jesus picks up this same theme. He speaks of servants doing their work faithfully and tells his followers: even if your faith is as small as a mustard seed, God can still work miracles through you. Don’t hold back because you feel unworthy or inadequate. Just do the good you’ve been called to do.

So as we sit here this morning, perhaps we too can sense God’s call tugging at our hearts — a call to serve, to help, to speak, to love. But maybe we hesitate. Maybe we think we’re not good enough, too weak, too sinful, too ordinary.

Yet like Habakkuk, Timothy, and Paul, we’ve received the same Spirit. God loves us, God has chosen us, and God believes in the good within us.

And so, even if we aren’t stars, we can still shine — shining God’s love, God’s hope, and God’s peace on those around us.

Hitting the mark of compassion

26 Sunday of Ordinary Time

The Gospel challenges us not only to see the suffering around us but to judge rightly what it means and to act with compassion. The rich man saw Lazarus but failed to recognize his need or respond, missing the mark of love. Like a skilled archer, we are called to see clearly, judge wisely, and act courageously, guided by the Holy Spirit.

Listen to homily here:

Whenever the Olympics are on, one of the events I like to watch is archery. I don’t know if some of you have seen this—these archers are incredible. I once saw a video where an archer aimed for the bull’s-eye, but there was already an arrow stuck right in the center. This archer had such incredible precision that his shot split the first arrow in half, lodging his own arrow perfectly in the same spot. The skill and focus of professional archers are remarkable.

Now, I contrast this with myself as a kid. I would try to make a bow and arrow, aim at the bull’s-eye, and end up sending the arrow twelve feet off to the right. Everyone had to stand clear, because I had no idea what I was doing!

Today in the Gospel, Jesus speaks to us about having this kind of clear sight—this clarity of aim and vision. In the Church, when we speak about sin, we often describe it as a break in our relationship with God and neighbor. But in the New Testament, the Greek word used is hamartia. It’s actually a technical term borrowed from archery and javelin-throwing. Hamartia literally means “to miss the mark.” So when we sin, we miss the mark of what God calls us to.

Jesus, in today’s Gospel parable, warns us about missing the mark—especially in recognizing the people in need all around us. Within our Catholic tradition, we have a way of thinking about moral action: see, judge, act. These three steps help us reflect on the parable of Lazarus and the rich man, and they connect beautifully with the image of an archer.

A skilled archer first sees clearly. They know exactly where the bull’s-eye is. But they also need to judge: to measure distance, to account for the wind, to evaluate all the surrounding factors. Finally, they must act—drawing and releasing the bow in just the right way to hit the target. They see, judge, and act.

The rich man in the Gospel fell short in judgment. Notice something interesting: he actually saw Lazarus. He even knew him by name—later, from Hades, he asks for Lazarus. So the problem wasn’t in seeing; it was in judging. He failed to recognize Lazarus’s need. He failed to realize that he could do something to help him.

We, too, are challenged by Jesus to judge rightly, to make judgments rooted in the Gospel. We see people every day—family members, classmates, parishioners, colleagues, friends. But do we truly recognize what’s happening in their lives—their struggles, their loneliness, their pain? Or, like the rich man, do we sometimes look without understanding?

Mother Teresa was known for her remarkable gift of judgment. People said that when she entered a room, she could immediately recognize who was suffering the most. Sometimes it was physical poverty, sometimes sickness, sometimes deep loneliness. She not only saw people but discerned their pain and responded with love.

That is what Jesus asks of us: to see our surroundings clearly, to judge them in light of the Gospel, and then to act. And here again the rich man failed—he never acted to help Lazarus, even when Lazarus longed just to eat the scraps from his table.

Taking action is not always easy. The suffering in our world—whether close to home in New Westminster or across the globe—can feel overwhelming. Yet the Church calls us to discern, to pray, and to take steps, even small ones, toward helping those in need.

Here in our parish, the Society of St. Vincent de Paul does incredible work serving the poor locally. Their envelopes are available, and they are always connected with the needs of our neighbors. On a broader scale, the Canadian bishops sponsor Development and Peace, which works with partners worldwide—meeting immediate needs but also striving to create a more just world.

Seeing, judging, and acting are not abstract ideas. They are practical steps that flow from faith. And they require the guidance of the Holy Spirit.

So let us take inspiration from the Gospel and from the image of a good archer. May we see clearly, judge wisely, and act courageously. And may the Spirit open our eyes to the suffering around us and guide us to take steps—big or small—to assist those in need. 

The Cross: From Shame to Life

 Exultation of the Holy Cross

The Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross reminds us that what was once an instrument of shame and death has been transformed by Christ into the tree of life and source of salvation. Marked with the Cross at baptism, we carry it as the core of our Christian identity, a sign of hope, service, and strength in suffering. Each time we make the Sign of the Cross, we proclaim that through Jesus’ love, death is conquered and life is given.

Alemamenos Graffiti

Listen to homily here:

What was the first thing you did when you entered the church this evening? Maybe the first thing you did after you took a bulletin? We often come into the church and mark ourselves with the Sign of the Cross using the holy water. The Sign of the Cross is something we do so frequently, in many different contexts. I’m always amazed when I watch soccer and see the players after they score a goal—oftentimes, they make a quick Sign of the Cross. We do this time and time again.

This evening, we celebrate the Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross. This feast is an incredible opportunity for us to remind ourselves of why we exult in the Cross, why it is that we celebrate the Cross of Jesus. The feast we celebrate today has a long history in the Church. Immediately after Jesus’ passion, death, and resurrection, Golgotha and the Holy Sepulchre, where Jesus was buried, became places of Christian devotion. Christians would come to pray there, to remember how he gave his life to save us.

As time went on, unrest broke out in Jerusalem. The Jewish population rose up against the Romans, and there were major interventions—one in 70 AD, and another finally in 130 AD. At that time, the emperor Hadrian rebuilt Jerusalem as a Roman colony called Aelia Capitolina. In doing so, he wanted to prevent both Jews and Christians from accessing their holy sites. He covered the ruins of the Temple with a great platform, and at Golgotha and the Holy Sepulchre he built a pagan temple. For almost 200 years Christians were prevented from worshiping at the very place of Jesus’ death and resurrection.

Then in the fourth century, around 325, Christianity was spreading widely. Constantine’s mother, Helena, became a Christian and traveled to Jerusalem to find the holy places. With the help of the local Christians she discovered Golgotha and the tomb of Jesus. Excavations revealed the site and, according to tradition, the remains of the true Cross. Helena convinced her son Constantine to build what is today the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. That church, although modified over the centuries, still stands. It was dedicated on September 14, around 330 AD. This is why we celebrate the Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross today: it recalls the dedication of that church and the veneration of the Cross.

For us, it may seem obvious that the Cross is something to celebrate. But in the early days of Christianity it seemed strange, even foolish, to exalt in the Cross. The earliest representation we have of the crucified Christ is not Christian art but pagan mockery. It is the Alexamenos graffiti, found on the Palatine Hill in Rome and dating to around 200 AD. It shows a man raising his hand in worship before a crucified figure with the head of a donkey. Underneath is the mocking inscription: “Alexamenos worships his god.” For pagans, worshiping someone who died on a cross was absurd. The cross was an instrument of shame and defeat. Why would anyone exalt in it?

We Christians exult in the Cross because Jesus took this instrument of death and, through his love, transformed it into the source of eternal life. About 200 years after the Alexamenos graffiti, around 425, we find the first Christian depiction of Christ on the cross. On the wooden doors of Santa Sabina in Rome there is a carved panel showing the crucifixion. By that time crucifixion was being outlawed in the Roman Empire, and Christianity had been legalized. For Christians, the Cross had become not a symbol of defeat but of veneration.

As the Gospel of John tells us, God gave his only Son to die so that we might have life. Just as the Israelites in the desert found healing by looking at the bronze serpent lifted up by Moses, so Christ lifted up on the Cross becomes the source of healing and salvation. Early Christians had a saying: “Behold, how the Cross stands revealed as the tree of life.” In Eden, Adam and Eve were barred from the tree of life through disobedience. But in the obedience of Christ, the Cross becomes the new tree of life, granting salvation and eternal life.

This is why we exult in the Cross. At baptism, each of us was marked with the Sign of the Cross. The priest or deacon traced the Cross on our forehead and said, “I claim you for Christ our Savior.” It is almost like a branding ritual: we belong to Christ. The Cross defines our identity.

Whenever we make the Sign of the Cross, we remind ourselves of this truth. We remind ourselves of our baptismal call. We remind ourselves that our sufferings can have purpose when united with Christ, that they can bring life. We remind ourselves of our call to humility and service. And finally, we remind ourselves of our hope, that because of Jesus’ death on the Cross, death itself has been conquered and eternal life given.

The Cross is the central mystery of our faith. We have been marked with it, and it defines who we are. So the next time we make the Sign of the Cross, let us do so with renewed awareness of what it means: a reminder of our baptism, a source of strength in suffering, a call to humility and service, and above all, a sign of our hope in the victory of Christ.

Yes, even saints can play video games

 23 Sunday in Ordinary Time

Saints are not distant figures from the past but people who lived ordinary lives, even enjoying things like video games and mountain climbing, while keeping Christ at the center. Jesus calls us to root our identity not in family, career, or possessions, but in being his disciples through baptism and the cross. Pier Giorgio Frassati and Carlo Acutis show us how a life grounded in Christ gives meaning and direction to everything else.

Listen to homily here:

Can a saint play video games? What do you think?

Believe it or not, the answer is yes, a saint can play video games. Let me explain.

Very soon in the Vatican, a canonization will take place. A canonization is a joyful Mass where the Pope declares someone a saint. When I studied in Rome years ago, I was able to attend a couple of canonizations in St. Peter’s Square. They are truly international celebrations: pilgrims from all over the world gather, and enormous banners with the faces of the new saints hang from the façade of the basilica.

Often those faces look like they belong to a distant time. Their clothing is unfamiliar, their lives far removed from ours. But the two people soon to be canonized feel much closer to us.

The first is Pier Giorgio Frassati, who died in 1925 at just 24 years old. Photos show him in a suit, smiling broadly, climbing mountains with friends. The second is Carlo Acutis, who died in 2006 and is becoming known as the first millennial saint. And yes, Carlo loved playing video games. So very soon, the Church will officially declare that saints can indeed play video games.

Today’s Gospel, however, is not lighthearted. Jesus speaks with striking words: “Unless you hate father and mother… unless you give up all your possessions… you cannot be my disciple.” At first hearing, this is hard. Surely Jesus is not commanding hatred or absolute renunciation for everyone.

What he is doing is forcing us to ask: Where do we root our identity? What is the true foundation of our lives?

In Jesus’ time, family determined everything: your status, your future, even your destiny. Wealth and possessions carried enormous weight too. And still today, we can base our whole identity on family, career, education, or possessions. These are important, but they are fragile. Families face conflict. Jobs can be lost. Health can fail. If our entire identity rests on these, what happens when they crumble?

Jesus insists: our true identity must be rooted in being his disciple. The foundation of our lives is the cross. Our baptism, being reborn as children of God, defines us more deeply than even the day of our natural birth.

This is where our soon-to-be saints can teach us.

Pier Giorgio Frassati was born into privilege in Turin. Yet he quietly poured out his time, money, and energy for the poor. Many only discovered the extent of his service at his funeral, when the poor of the city filled the church. He loved his friends and outdoor adventures, but always used those relationships to draw people toward Christ. His life shows us how to place Christ at the center, letting that relationship guide everything else.

Carlo Acutis grew up in our world of internet, technology, and video games. But at the heart of his life was a profound love for Jesus in the Eucharist and for Our Lady. He used the internet creatively, building a website to spread devotion to the Eucharist. He had many friends, but his choices and creativity all flowed from his identity as a disciple of Christ.

So yes, a saint can play video games. A saint can climb mountains, study, work, have friends, even enjoy modern technology. But what makes them saints is that they rooted their identity in Christ.

Today, we are challenged to ask: What is most important about my identity? What is my foundation? Family, education, career, possessions, all are good gifts. But only when our lives are rooted in Christ do these find their true place.

By baptism, we are disciples. Our foundation is the cross. Let us pray through the intercession of Blessed Pier Giorgio and Blessed Carlo that we too may live joyfully as followers of Jesus, disciples whose identity is secure no matter what comes.

Humility Meets Hospitality (22 Sunday of Ordinary Time, C)

22 Sunday of Ordinary Time, year C, Luke 14:1, 7–14

In today’s Gospel (Luke 14:1, 7–14), Jesus links humility with true hospitality. Real humility isn’t pretending we are worthless, but learning to think of ourselves less—turning outward in love. True hospitality welcomes those who cannot repay us, affirming their dignity as children of God. At the Eucharist, Christ gives us this perfect example: he makes room for us at his table, giving a gift we could never repay, and sends us out to extend the same welcome to others.

Listen to homily here:

A wedding banquet is one of the most joyful celebrations you can attend. But there’s always that slightly stressful moment when you walk into the reception and face the seating chart. Sometimes couples get very creative with these charts, but for the couple it can be stressful: Who isn’t talking to one another and needs to be separated? What do we do with the weird uncle—and who do we insulate him with? (I can say that because I’m the weird uncle now!) For guests too, it can be a little awkward: Who will I sit with? Will I know them? Will the conversation be easy, or a bit strained?

Seating arrangements are still a challenge today, and it seems they were also a challenge in Jesus’ time. In today’s Gospel, Jesus is at a meal in the home of a Pharisee, watching how people choose their places at the table. Out of this, he teaches two related lessons.

First, he shows us that true honor is not something we grasp for ourselves but something we receive. And ultimately, it is God who bestows honor on us. Then, in a second parable, Jesus teaches about hospitality. He tells us not to invite only those who can repay us, but rather to invite those who cannot. This is true hospitality.

Put together, these two teachings suggest something important: humility and hospitality go hand in hand.

Humility is often misunderstood. We sometimes think humility means pretending we are worthless or denying the good in us. But real humility is living in the truth: recognizing that we are created good by God, while not making ourselves the center of the universe. C.S. Lewis once put it perfectly: “Humility is not thinking less of ourselves, but thinking of ourselves less.”

And how do we do this? By turning outward in hospitality. True hospitality means noticing the people around us—family, friends, colleagues, neighbors, even strangers—and asking: Who is in need of care? Who needs their dignity affirmed or restored?

A beautiful image of this combination is Jesus at the Last Supper. When he washed the disciples’ feet, he took the place of a servant. That was humility. But it was also hospitality. He was making his guests feel at home and cared for.

How can we live this combination of humility and hospitality?

• In our families: Don’t play favorites. Notice which family member or close friend is struggling and needs care and attention at this moment. It takes humility to set aside our own preoccupations, and it becomes hospitality when we offer love in action.

• In our parish: When someone new joins us at Mass, do we notice them? Do we greet them, extend a smile, help them feel at home? Even coffee after Mass can be a chance to step out of our little circle and welcome someone new. That’s humility, thinking of ourselves less, and hospitality, drawing others in.

• In our wider community: We can serve those in need, support charities, or even simply carry people in prayer. Every Mass, we pray the intercessions for the world. But each of us can also bring to the Eucharist our personal prayers for people in need. This is a humble and powerful act of hospitality: holding others in our hearts before God.

Today Jesus speaks of banquets where honor is given and hospitality is shown without expecting repayment. The Eucharist is the greatest banquet of all. At this table, Christ makes room for us, gives us dignity as sons and daughters of God, and offers us a gift we could never repay: Himself.

So as we come to the Lord’s table, may we be transformed. Let us recognize in true humility the dignity God gives us. And let us be changed by this banquet of love, so that we, in turn, can offer humble hospitality to those around us, especially those who cannot repay us.

No Nexus Pass to Heaven

21 Sunday in Ordinary Time, year C | Luke 13:22–30

Today’s Gospel reminds us that salvation isn’t automatic just because we belong to the right group or community. Entry into God’s kingdom is not about having a “pass,” but about whether Christ recognizes his own love, mercy, and service alive in us. Belonging to the Church helps, but each of us must personally choose to follow Christ through the narrow gate of faith and discipleship.

Listen to homily here:

 

Maybe you think back to the last time you had to cross a border or go through customs. Perhaps you were driving into the United States, or maybe you were standing in line at the Vancouver airport. I know I’ve had that experience more than once. Sitting in my car, I start to wonder: How long will this lineup take? What questions will they ask me? Could I be turned away? What will happen next?

And as I sit there, waiting, sometimes a very long time, I notice another line beside me—the Nexus line. The same is true at airports. Those with that pass just breeze right through. They have pre-authorized clearance, guaranteed entry to their destination. And every time I see that, I think to myself: Why don’t I just get one of those passes? It would make life so much easier!

So here’s the question: is there such a thing as a Nexus pass to heaven? If we belong to a particular group, community, or religious tradition, are we automatically guaranteed entry into God’s kingdom? That’s the issue at the heart of today’s gospel.

At first, today’s reading might sound a little unsettling, but in truth it is both hopeful and challenging. Jesus is teaching that salvation is never guaranteed simply by belonging to the right group. Being part of a religious community matters, but it isn’t enough.

Think of the Jewish world in the first century. Jesus’ own community was divided into groups, each of which claimed to be the true Israel. The historian Josephus tells us of three main groups: the Sadducees, tied to the Temple in Jerusalem; the Essenes, who withdrew to the wilderness believing they alone were God’s chosen; and the Pharisees, who taught and preached among the people. Each group in its own way believed it held the “Nexus pass” into God’s kingdom.

But Jesus rejected that assumption. He said plainly: being part of the right group does not guarantee entry into God’s kingdom. In fact, he warns that people from the east and west—those considered outsiders—may enter first, while those who assumed they had automatic access could find themselves shut out.

This same challenge applies to us. Even within the Catholic Church, we can fall into the temptation of thinking: As long as I’m Catholic, I’m set. I have my pass. For centuries the phrase extra ecclesiam nulla salus—“outside the Church, no salvation”—was often misunderstood to mean exactly that. But the Church teaches more fully that while we do hold the fullness of Christ’s truth, God’s grace is at work beyond our visible boundaries. Belonging to the Church is a gift, but it is not a free ticket. What matters ultimately is a personal relationship with Christ.

That’s the meaning behind Jesus’ image of the narrow gate. In ancient Jerusalem, during the day the large gates of the city were open for crowds to pass. At night, those gates were closed, leaving only a small gate through which people entered one at a time. The guard at that gate needed to recognize the person—to know them personally.

This is Jesus’ point. Salvation is not about group membership or a collective identity alone. It is about whether Christ recognizes himself in us—whether he sees in our lives his love, his mercy, his sacrifice, his service. Passing through the narrow gate is difficult, but hopeful, because it means each of us is invited into a personal friendship with Jesus.

Notice too that when asked, “How many will be saved?” Jesus refuses to give a number. Instead, he shifts the focus: salvation is offered to all. That is the hopeful side of the message. The challenge, however, is to embrace that offer personally, to live in such a way that Christ recognizes us as his own.

So, no—there isn’t a Nexus pass to heaven. But there is something better. There is an open invitation from Jesus himself. Today, as we celebrate the Eucharist, let us recommit ourselves to living as Christ lived, so that when we meet him face to face, he will recognize himself in us and say: Welcome, enter into my Father’s kingdom.

Crocs in Sports Mode: Ready for Jesus

19 Sunday of Ordinary Time, C,  (Luke 12:35–40)

Jesus calls us to live each day prepared to meet Him, like servants waiting for their master’s return. St. Polycarp’s lifelong faithfulness and the daily habits of the early Christians show us that readiness comes from steady prayer, worship, and acts of love. By keeping our hearts in “spiritual sports mode,” we can welcome Christ with joy whenever He comes.

Listen to homily here:  

You might have heard of shoes called Crocs. They’re big, chunky, foam-like shoes — not exactly elegant, but very comfortable, and quite popular with young people these days. I’m not wearing them right now (though I probably will after Mass).

One day I was talking with one of the Grade 7 students in our catechism program, and he explained to me that Crocs have two modes. The first is the relaxed mode — the strap is flipped forward so you can slide your foot in and out easily. The second is “sports mode” — you flip the strap back around your heel, and suddenly you’re ready for anything. In sports mode, you can run, play, or even escape if someone starts chasing you! It’s the mode of being prepared.

That image of “sports mode” came to mind as I listened to today’s Gospel. Jesus calls us to be ready at all times, like servants prepared for their master’s return. If Jesus were to come here and now, to meet us face to face, would we be ready?

This readiness is central to the heart of Christian discipleship. In his earliest letters — like 1 Thessalonians — St. Paul urged Christians to live in constant expectation of Christ’s return. Even when it became clear that the Second Coming might not be in just a few years, the early Church maintained a way of life that kept their hearts prepared for whenever the Lord might come.

A beautiful example of this is St. Polycarp, martyred in the year 155. Tradition tells us he was a disciple of St. John the Apostle, who himself was a disciple of Jesus — a living link to the Lord. Polycarp was bishop of Smyrna (modern-day Turkey) during a time when Christians were being persecuted for refusing to worship the Roman emperor.

When the authorities came to arrest him, Polycarp had the chance to flee, but chose to remain. At his trial, the governor gave him the choice: honour Caesar as divine and deny Christ, or face death. Polycarp replied with his famous words:

“Eighty-six years I have served Him, and He has done me no wrong. How can I blaspheme my King who saved me?”

He was executed soon after — but he met that moment not with fear, but with the readiness of a heart that had spent a lifetime walking with Christ.

This readiness is not something we develop overnight. It’s formed in the small, daily habits of faith. It shapes our decisions: before we act, we can ask ourselves, If I had to explain this to Jesus tomorrow, would I be comfortable? It urges us not to delay doing good — forgiving someone, reconciling a relationship, serving where God calls — because we may not get another chance.

And readiness also fills us with hope. We remember that the One we await is not a stranger or a harsh judge, but the Saviour who laid down His life for us. The early Christians often prayed in Aramaic, Marana tha — “Come, Lord Jesus.” They longed to see Him, just as we should.

Daily prayer, Sunday Mass, reading Scripture — these simple practices keep our hearts in “sports mode” for the spiritual life. I once had a Latin professor at seminary, an older Swiss monk, who would say, “I might give you a pop quiz any day, so always be ready.” I was always nervous, trying to guess when the test would come. One of my classmates, though, was always calm. His secret? He just kept up with the material every day. No cramming, no guessing — just steady readiness.

The Christian life works the same way. Small, faithful practices day by day mean we won’t be caught unprepared when Christ comes — whether at the end of our lives or at His return in glory.

So let us live with the heart of St. Polycarp, the prayer of the early Christians, and — as that Grade 7 student reminded me — the attitude of wearing our Crocs in sports mode: ready for anything, ready for Jesus, ready to meet the One we love.

What Will You Take With You?

 Homily for the 18th Sunday in Ordinary Time – Year C

Gospel: Luke 12:13–21

Jesus reminds us that while material needs are real and pressing—especially in a city like Vancouver—they must not become our ultimate concern. Like the ghost towns left behind after the gold rush, worldly treasures don’t last. True riches are found in what we give away: love, service, and relationships that endure into eternity.

Listent to homily here:

You might be aware that here in British Columbia, there are a number of places known as ghost towns. Some of you may have even visited one, like Barkerville, which is perhaps the most famous. I’ve never been myself, but I find them fascinating. I enjoy reading their stories and looking at photos. There’s something captivating about places that were once bustling with life and have since fallen silent.

Take Barkerville, for example. It was founded in 1862—just two years after St. Peter’s Parish was established. It sprang up during the Cariboo Gold Rush and quickly grew into a thriving settlement. At its height, it was nearly the size of San Francisco. Towns like Barkerville popped up all over the B.C. interior, filled with people from around the world, all searching for gold, for wealth, for a better life for themselves and their families.

But when the gold ran out, so did the people. The towns were abandoned, and nature slowly reclaimed them. Barkerville was preserved as a tourist site, but others, like Fisherville, have all but disappeared—overgrown with vegetation, their buildings slowly decaying, their bustling streets now silent paths in the forest.

These ghost towns, I think, offer a striking parallel to today’s Gospel.

Jesus tells a parable about a man who stores up wealth, building bigger barns to secure his future, only to die suddenly, leaving it all behind. His mistake wasn’t in working hard or having possessions—but in making material wealth his ultimate focus. He was “not rich toward God.”

That phrase—rich toward God—challenges us to reflect on what we’re building with our lives. What kind of treasure are we storing up?

The people who once lived in these gold rush towns invested everything in the pursuit of wealth. And from a worldly perspective, that made sense. But today, their towns are empty. Their fortunes—whatever they may have gained—didn’t last.

Of course, we do need to care for material needs. We have to work, provide for our families, and make wise choices. And in a city like Vancouver—beautiful but famously expensive—this is more pressing than ever. Many families are stretched thin, struggling to keep up with housing costs, inflation, and everyday expenses. Jesus is not ignoring this. He knows our burdens. He lived in poverty Himself.

But what He does ask us to do is to reassess our priorities. In the midst of all our striving, are we also building up what lasts?

Recently, we got an unexpected “examination of conscience” of sorts. You may have heard about the large earthquake off the coast of Russia and the resulting tsunami warnings issued across the Pacific—including here on the West Coast. Thankfully, nothing came of it, but it did get me thinking: if I were in a tsunami zone and received such a warning, what would I focus on? What would I try to take with me? Which people would I try to protect? What possessions—if any—would I think worth saving?

It was a sobering question. Because in a moment of urgency, only the most important things rise to the surface. And I realized that many of the things I worry about or work hard for are not the things I’d cling to in a moment of crisis. I suspect the same might be true for many of us.

So perhaps a spiritual question we can ask is this: If we had only a few hours to prepare, what would we choose to save? What—or who—would matter most?

That’s the kind of clarity Jesus wants us to have—not only in a moment of crisis, but every day. Are we focusing our lives on what truly lasts? Are we building up eternal treasures—like love, service, generosity, mercy, and faith?

Yes, we must be prudent and responsible with our material needs. But we must also make space to invest in what is eternal: in our relationship with God, in loving our neighbour, in caring for others, and in giving of ourselves. These are the treasures that last.

I’ll leave you with a phrase that captures the heart of this Gospel message:
“In the end, the only things we can take with us to heaven are the things we have given away.”

Let us pray, then, that we may be rich not just in things, but rich in the sight of God.

More Than Words: How the Our Father Shapes Us

Homily for the 17th Sunday in Ordinary Time – Year C

Gospel: Luke 11:1–13 

The Our Father isn’t just a set of words we repeat—it’s a prayer that slowly forms our hearts and reshapes our lives. Like a parent saying “I love you” each night, its repetition is meant to ground us in relationship, awe, mission, trust, forgiveness, and hope. Each phrase draws us deeper into what it means to live as children of God and builders of His kingdom.

Listen to homily here:

I was once visiting a kindergarten class, and during that visit, the teacher was helping the children learn the Our Father—the Lord’s Prayer. Perhaps you can remember back to when you first learned that prayer. I can’t really; I must have been very young, as you probably were too. For most of us, the Our Father is one of the first prayers we ever learned.

And it’s one we repeat frequently—at every Mass, and perhaps even every day. At times, that repetition might feel routine. We may start to lose sight of its meaning. We might wonder if there’s any value in repeating the Our Father so often.

But repeating certain words, even if familiar, does have value.

Consider this: when a parent tucks a child into bed at night, what are the last words they often say? Likely something like “Good night” or “I love you.” It’s not new information. The child already knows they are loved. But the repetition matters. Those repeated words give the child security. They shape the child’s heart. The daily ritual is not meaningless—it forms something deep and lasting.

The same is true for us when we repeat the Our Father. This is not mindless repetition. Every phrase is meant to form our hearts.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus teaches us this prayer—not as a formula, but as a way of shaping how we think, how we feel, and how we live. Let’s take a few moments to reflect on the meaning of the words we pray so often.

“Our Father, who art in heaven…”

Karl Marx once said that “religion is the opium of the masses.” He meant that religion is just a dull routine—rituals that pacify people and prevent change. But when we truly follow Jesus, nothing could be further from the truth. This opening line reminds us that religion is not primarily about rules or rituals—it’s about relationship. God is a loving Father, and we are His children. More than that, we are also siblings to one another, united as part of God’s family. The very first word—our—tells us this prayer is not just individual but communal.

“Hallowed be thy name…”

Some of you may have seen images from the James Webb Space Telescope—those stunning pictures of faraway galaxies and endless stars. I love looking at them. They fill me with awe and wonder at how vast creation is—and how small we are. That same sense of wonder is what this line of the prayer invites. To “hallow” means to make holy, to recognize God’s greatness. We are reminded here of the majesty of God—Creator of all things, immense in power and love.

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven…”

To follow Jesus is to be part of His mission. When He first began His ministry, Jesus proclaimed, “Repent and believe—the kingdom of God has come near.” He came to establish God's kingdom, and He invites us to help build it. That kingdom is one of justice, peace, and mercy. I once heard a powerful question to help us understand our mission: If God were fully in charge of the world—our family, our workplace, our country—what would God change? Once we’ve answered that, our task is to help make that change real.

“Give us this day our daily bread…”

Sometimes when people are going through difficulties, I ask, “Have you prayed about it?” They’ll say, “It’s too small—I don’t want to bother God.” But in this prayer, Jesus invites us to come to God with everything. Nothing is too small. Daily bread means our basic needs—both physical and spiritual. God wants us to be transparent, to speak to Him freely, and to trust that He cares deeply about every part of our lives.

“Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us…”

For me, this is one of the most hopeful—and most challenging—lines in the prayer. It reminds us that God is infinitely merciful. But it also calls us to forgive others, even those who have hurt us. As Jesus says elsewhere, it’s easy to love those who love us. The real challenge of Christianity is to forgive our enemies. This prayer reminds us that forgiveness is not optional—it’s central to the life of faith.

“And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

The Our Father ends on this note of realism: we are on a journey, and we will face trials. We are pilgrims, just like the people of Israel journeying through the wilderness. As we mark this year as a Jubilee of Hope, we remember: life is a pilgrimage. God doesn’t promise to remove all challenges, but He does promise to walk with us. We ask for His protection—not just from suffering, but from despair and evil. We ask to be kept close to Him.

The Our Father is an incredible gift. It is not just a prayer to be recited; it is a pattern for living. When we pray it—alone or in community—it slowly shapes our hearts, day by day.

So today, when we pray it again at Mass, let us not rush through the words. Let’s pray it attentively, knowing that in these familiar lines, Jesus is once again teaching us how to love, how to trust, and how to live.

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.