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.

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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.

Pilgrims of Hope: Walking in the Light of the Resurrection

 Easter Vigil

On this most sacred night, we journey from darkness to light, celebrating the Resurrection of Jesus Christ and the victory of life over death. As pilgrims of hope, we walk not alone, but with the Risen Christ lighting our path through the gift of the Paschal candle, the Word of God, and the waters of baptism. This Easter, let us choose to carry that light into the world—renewed in faith, strengthened by hope, and sent forth in joy.

Listen to homily here:

Easter Vigil Homily: Pilgrims of Hope

This evening, we are truly pilgrims of hope. Tonight is a night of joy and of radiant hope in the resurrection of Jesus Christ. Over the past three days, we have journeyed together through the sacred pilgrimage of the Triduum—Holy Thursday, Good Friday, and now, at last, the celebration of Easter.

Yesterday, on Good Friday, we stood at Golgotha, the hill of crucifixion, commemorated within the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. There, we reflected on the meaning of Jesus’ death: His merciful intervention in the midst of our sin, and the truth that He never leaves us alone. This evening, in our hearts, we continue that pilgrimage. From the chapel of Calvary, we descend the worn stone steps of the Sepulchre, cross the church, and stoop to enter the small, ancient shrine known as the edicule—the very site where Jesus was laid in the tomb. That quiet, unassuming space is the place where we believe the Resurrection occurred.

Each year in the Eastern Orthodox tradition, a remarkable event unfolds at the edicule: a flame is said to emerge mysteriously from the tomb, and one by one, those present light their candles from it. The light spreads throughout the entire church, filling the space with the glow of the Resurrection. In our own celebration this evening, we began with the blessing of the new fire, kindled outside in the darkness. From it, the Paschal candle was lit—symbolizing the Risen Christ—and from that candle, our own tapers were lit. As each flame passed from one person to another, we witnessed a living image of how Christ’s Resurrection spreads light into every corner of the world.

That light will return again later in the Vigil, when our catechumens are baptized. They will receive a candle lit from the Paschal flame, just as we all did at our own baptisms. These candles remind us that our Christian life is a journey—a pilgrimage—lit by the light of Christ. Without it, we walk in darkness. As some of you experienced when entering the church this evening, it’s difficult to walk without light. But once the lights are lit, we can see clearly. So too in our faith: Christ illumines our path.

We heard tonight the long but beautiful series of readings that trace the history of salvation—our family story in the faith. Much like a beloved elder at a family gathering who recounts where we’ve come from and what we’ve been through, these readings remind us of who we are and whose we are. They tell us of God's enduring faithfulness, His constant guidance through creation, Exodus, covenant, exile, and finally the coming of His Son. These stories are not just ancient texts—they shape our identity and give us confidence for the road ahead. Because God has been faithful in the past, we know He will be with us in the future. That is what makes us pilgrims of hope.

St. Paul tells us in the epistle tonight that through baptism, we are buried with Christ so that we might walk in newness of life. This walking—this journeying—is the essence of Christian life. From the earliest days, as we see in the Acts of the Apostles, being a Christian was called “the Way.” It was—and is—a path. As Christians, we love the world deeply, but we also walk a distinct path within it, following Christ. Our choices, our relationships, our values—all are transformed because we carry the light of the Risen Christ.

We have just heard the Gospel: “He is not here. He is risen.” This announcement, made first to the women at the tomb, echoes across time to us tonight. And so, we must ask: Do we truly believe this? Do we believe that Christ died and rose again—and that we, too, will rise with Him? If we do, then it changes everything. It changes how we live, how we treat others, how we love. The belief in the Resurrection becomes the flame that lights every step of our journey.

We are called, then, to carry that light. To look not for the darkness in the world, but to seek out the light. To recognize God's blessings, to name them, to amplify them. And then to become light for others—to be hope and joy for those around us.

So tonight, whether you are receiving the light of Christ for the first time in baptism, or renewing the promises made long ago, let this incredible movement—from darkness to light, from death to life—leave a lasting imprint on your heart. Let us leave this church as pilgrims—but always, pilgrims of hope.

Making Our Cross a Crucifix

 Good Friday

On Good Friday, we stand before the cross not in despair, but as pilgrims of hope. Though the day is marked by suffering and silence, it is good because God chose to enter our broken world, confront sin, and redeem it through love. In Jesus, the innocent one who suffers for the guilty, the cycle of sin is interrupted and transformed. And through His death, we discover that we are never alone—not even in suffering or death—for Christ has made every cross a crucifix by sharing it with us.

Listen to homily here:

Good Friday Homily – Making Our Cross a Crucifix

Almost 1,700 years ago, the Emperor Constantine built what is perhaps the most famous church in all the world: the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. Construction began around the early 4th century, and although the building has been destroyed and rebuilt many times, it still stands today as the most central pilgrimage site for Christians of all traditions—Catholics, Eastern Orthodox, Armenian, Coptic, and Ethiopian alike all stream to this sacred place.

When you enter the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, you pass through the main entrance and, to the right, ascend a steep flight of ancient stone stairs, worn smooth by centuries of pilgrims. At the top, there is a chapel. Pilgrims wait in line to approach an altar beneath which there is a small opening. Each pilgrim kneels and reaches through the opening to touch the rock below—a rock polished smooth by countless hands. That rock is believed to be the summit of Calvary, the place where Jesus was crucified.

This church was built around Calvary, the hill where the events we commemorate today—on Good Friday—took place. And today, as we continue our Triduum pilgrimage that began last night, we walk with Jesus to the cross. We hear His words, witness His actions, and ask ourselves: How should this change the way I think? How should this change the way I live?

This year, as part of the Jubilee Year of Hope, we are invited to live the Triduum as pilgrims of hope. But at first glance, today doesn’t seem like a hopeful day. Put yourself in the shoes of Jesus’ followers. As we heard in the Passion according to John, Jesus is arrested, brought to trial, abandoned by His companions—including Peter, the very one chosen to lead. He is scourged, condemned, and crucified.

It is, in many ways, a dark day—a day of fear, of silence, of loss. The disciples were filled with hopelessness. How, then, can we find hope?

To begin with, we must be willing to pass through the darkness. Part of our pilgrimage with Christ means acknowledging the pain, fear, and hopelessness that His disciples felt. And it means recognizing the painful truth at the heart of Good Friday: sin has consequences.

From the earliest chapters of Genesis, we see this clearly. The story of Adam and Eve, followed by stories of jealousy, murder, greed, and lust, all reveal how sin spreads. Like a virus, sin begins small and then infects everything, bringing hurt and destruction in its wake. This is the cycle we all live in. We say things that wound others, who in turn may wound someone else. We are caught in this chain reaction of sin.

And yet, today is not called Bad Friday. It is Good Friday. Why?

Because in the midst of this brokenness, God chose not to leave us alone. In the face of sin, God sent His Son. Jesus died for our sins. As St. Paul tells us in one of the earliest creeds of the Christian faith—recounted in 1 Corinthians 15—“Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures.”

The death of Jesus is God's response to sin. In a mysterious way, Jesus’ death brings an end to the cycle of sin and violence. The New Testament authors wrestled with how to express this mystery, and one of their key resources was the prophet Isaiah’s image of the Suffering Servant. This Servant, righteous and sinless, suffers not for His own wrongdoing, but for the sake of others. His suffering brings healing, even for those who caused it.

The early Christians recognized Jesus as the fulfillment of Isaiah’s prophecy. In Jesus, the sinless one absorbs the violence and hatred of the world and transforms it—offering mercy instead of retaliation, life instead of death. This is the foundation of our hope.

Good Friday also reminds us that whatever we are going through, Jesus is with us. Today is the culmination of the Incarnation—the mystery that God became one of us. We celebrate the Incarnation at Christmas, but it finds its fulfillment today. Jesus shares in our humanity not only in joy and love but in suffering, rejection, and death.

Death is something we all face—either through the loss of loved ones or in our own lives. It is something many fear. But Jesus does not leave us to face death alone. He enters into it with us. He walks with us to the very end.

Tomorrow, we will celebrate with joy the triumph of life over death. But even today, as we stand in the shadow of the cross, we are not without hope. We face the reality of sin and its consequences—but we do so knowing that God has entered into our suffering. Christ walks with us.

In a few moments, we will have the opportunity to venerate the cross. This is a deeply meaningful gesture. Each of us carries burdens, struggles, personal crosses. There’s a powerful phrase that captures what we do today: “Make your cross a crucifix.”

A cross is simply a burden. But a crucifix is a cross that Christ shares with us. When we make our cross a crucifix, we are not alone in our suffering. We invite Jesus into it. That is what we are invited to do today.

So let us come to the cross with hope. Let us offer Christ our pain, our struggles, and our fears. Let us remember that He suffered and died for us—so that we would never be alone.

Let us make our cross a crucifix. And let us be pilgrims of hope.

Holy Thursday - Pilgrims of Hope

Holy Thursday

On Holy Thursday, we begin a sacred pilgrimage with Jesus—from the Upper Room to the Cross and the empty tomb. The Eucharist, which we receive tonight, is not just a ritual but a powerful source of hope: it transforms us, unites us, and gives us a foretaste of eternal life. As Pilgrims of Hope in this Jubilee year, let us allow Christ’s love to shape us into His likeness and carry that hope into the world.

Listen to homily here: 

Holy Thursday Homily – Pilgrims of Hope

In the ancient city of Jerusalem, just outside the Old City walls, there is a famous place of pilgrimage called the Cenacle—sometimes referred to as the Cenaculum or the Upper Room. If you visit this site, you will see pilgrims coming throughout the day to pray and reflect. The current structure, with its Gothic architecture, has been built, destroyed, and rebuilt many times over the centuries. But tradition holds that this is the very place where Jesus celebrated the Last Supper with His apostles.

Some years ago, I had the privilege of visiting this sacred space. Standing there as a pilgrim, I couldn’t help but wonder: what was it like to be at the Last Supper? What would it have felt like to sit with Jesus, to see and hear what He was doing? On the one hand, it was a familiar Passover meal—something the disciples had observed many times before. As we heard in the first reading, the Passover celebrates the Exodus, with blessings over bread and wine. But this particular Passover was different.

Jesus reconfigured the meal. He took bread, broke it, and said, “This is my body. Take and eat.” He took the cup and said, “This is my blood. Drink from it.” Imagine how strange and mysterious this would have seemed to His followers. They had never heard anything like it.

Today, we may not have the opportunity to travel to the Cenacle, but we do have something equally important: the journey of the Triduum. These three days—Holy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Easter Vigil—form a sacred pilgrimage. We begin tonight at the Last Supper, walk with Jesus through His Passion and Death, and arrive at the Resurrection.

But let us remember: we are not meant to be mere spectators. Pilgrims are different. Pilgrims allow the events they witness to touch their hearts and transform their lives. And this year, the Jubilee Year of Hope, gives this idea of pilgrimage even greater meaning. As Pilgrims of Hope, let us walk these sacred days attentively and prayerfully, asking ourselves: How is Jesus giving us hope? How is He renewing hope in our lives and in the lives of those around us?

Tonight, Holy Thursday, we celebrate several great and intertwined mysteries:

• The gift of the Eucharist, Jesus giving us His very Body and Blood to nourish us;

• The gift of the priesthood—both the ministerial priesthood and the priesthood of all the baptized;

• And the commandment to love, made visible in the Gospel from John, where Jesus stoops to wash the feet of His disciples and tells them, “Do you understand what I have done for you? Now go and do the same.”

How does this evening fill us with hope?

Let us reflect on the Eucharist through the lens of our life’s journey—our pilgrimage from childhood through to old age.

1. The Eucharist at First Communion: Transformation

Tonight, several of our PREP students will receive their First Holy Communion—a joyful and sacred moment. More will follow in May. For many of us, First Communion remains a cherished memory. The sense of awe and wonder may fade with time, but we can remember how special that day was.

Sometimes when distributing Communion, I see parents approach with toddlers in their arms. After the parent receives, the child reaches out, saying, “I want one!” It’s a beautiful sign of desire for this sacred gift.

It wasn’t always the case that children received Communion at a young age. Around 1900, Pope Pius X promoted the practice, recognizing that we need spiritual nourishment early in life to help us grow in holiness.

When we receive the Eucharist, we are transformed into what we receive: Jesus Christ. The Eucharist is not just bread—it is Christ Himself. And as we receive Him, we are called to become like Him. What does that look like? The Gospel shows us: it means service, humility, and love—symbolized in the washing of feet.

This transformation gives us hope. We are not stuck in old patterns—we are being shaped into the likeness of Christ.

2. The Eucharist in Our Journey: Unity

As we continue through life, the Eucharist sustains us and unites us. In the second reading, St. Paul addresses the Corinthians—the earliest written account of the Last Supper. But Paul wasn’t praising them; he was correcting them. The community was divided. The wealthy were feasting and excluding the poor before the Eucharist, making them feel ashamed.

Paul rebukes them because their actions contradict the very meaning of the Eucharist. In the Eucharist, Jesus gives Himself selflessly to unite us. There is no place for division—rich and poor, powerful and weak—all are one in Christ.

In John’s Gospel, one of Jesus’ final prayers is “that they may all be one.” Unity is the deep desire of Jesus’ heart. And in our world today—with its many divisions, wars, and polarizations—the Church is called to be a sign of unity.

At St. Peter’s, it is moving to witness the diversity of people who come forward for Communion: people of every age, background, and culture. We receive the same Body of Christ and, through it, are made into the Body of Christ—the Church. The Eucharist is a sign of hope because it unites what the world so often tears apart.

3. The Eucharist at Life’s End: A Foretaste of Eternal Life

As our journey nears its end, the Eucharist becomes a profound sign of hope. At St. Peter’s, we have the privilege of bringing Communion to parishioners in hospitals and nursing homes. Sometimes, it is the last time they will receive the Eucharist before entering eternal life.

In receiving the Eucharist, they receive not just a symbol, but the Risen Christ Himself—alive, victorious over death. The Eucharist is a taste of eternity.

St. Ignatius of Antioch, writing in the first century, called the Eucharist “the medicine of immortality, the antidote to death.” This is not poetic language; it is a profession of faith. The Eucharist gives us the promise of eternal life.

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Conclusion: Pilgrims of Hope

So, dear brothers and sisters, as we begin this sacred pilgrimage of the Triduum, let us walk as Pilgrims of Hope.

• Hope that the Eucharist transforms us into the likeness of Christ.

• Hope that the Eucharist unites us as one Body.

• Hope that the Eucharist leads us to eternal life.

Let us open our hearts over these days to what Jesus says and does. And when we say “Amen” at Communion tonight, let it be our joyful affirmation of hope.

From Palms to the Cross: The Cost and Courage of Discipleship

 Palm Sunday, Year C

What do Jesus entering Jerusalem and St. Oscar Romero speaking truth to power have in common? Both were praised by crowds—then rejected when their message became uncomfortable. This Palm Sunday reflection invites us to consider the real cost of discipleship and the courage it takes to follow Christ all the way to the cross—and beyond.

Listen to homily here:  

When I was a teen, I watched the movie Romero, which tells the story of the Salvadoran bishop Oscar Romero—now canonized as a saint. In the late 1970s, Romero was appointed bishop. At first, he was widely respected by all—people in government, church leaders, and both the rich and poor. But over time, Romero began to see more clearly the injustice and oppression around him, often inflicted on the people by a violent regime. He could no longer stay silent. He began to speak out boldly against the violence and the suffering of the poor.

As a result, he was soon targeted by the government. On March 24, 1980, while celebrating Mass, Oscar Romero was shot and killed. He became a modern-day martyr—an example of someone who followed the path of Jesus, the same path we begin today on Palm Sunday and continue through Holy Week and into Easter.

Like the story of Jesus, the story of Oscar Romero begins with praise but moves quickly into persecution. Romero was not always rejected—he was once praised by almost everyone. But after the assassination of his close friend, Fr. Rutilio Grande, Romero’s eyes were opened. He began to see the injustice for what it was. And he had a choice. He chose the difficult path: to speak out, even when he knew it would cost him.

This is also the story of Jesus. At the beginning of Mass today, we heard how the crowds welcomed Jesus into Jerusalem with joyful acclaim. They waved palm branches. They likely believed He was a political or military leader, like Judas Maccabeus—whom we read about in the Books of Maccabees. About 150 years before Jesus, Judas Maccabeus led a revolt against the Greek ruler Antiochus IV. He raised an army, drove out the oppressors, and entered Jerusalem in triumph. The people waved palm branches to celebrate his victory.

Many likely thought Jesus was another such figure—a Messiah who would overthrow the Romans and restore Israel’s independence. But Jesus was not that kind of Messiah. He came not to raise an army, but to serve the poor. He spoke truth to power. He took the violence of the world upon Himself, bore it to the cross, and broke its power.

At first, the crowd praised Him. They called Him king and waved palms. But when they saw what kind of king He truly was—when they realized He called them to live justly, to love their enemies, to forgive—then they turned on Him. They called for His death and demanded the release of a criminal instead. Even His closest friends abandoned Him.

The story of Oscar Romero is like the story of Jesus. It moves from praise to persecution. And as disciples, our lives often follow the same pattern. There is great joy in following Christ—we experience it in the celebrations of our parish, in baptisms and weddings, in community dinners and cultural festivals. There is real joy in being part of this family of faith.

But there is also a cost. Following Jesus is not always easy. Sometimes it’s as simple as choosing prayer when we don’t feel like it, or coming to Mass when we’re tired. Sometimes it’s resisting peer pressure, refusing to gossip, being honest when it would be easier not to. Sometimes it means going against trends, choosing to give rather than to consume, to help the poor, to support the Church, to live generously.

At times, the cost is even greater—like it was for Oscar Romero. Toward the end of his life, he knew the government was trying to silence him. Yet he kept speaking out. One month before his death, Romero said: “If they kill me, I shall rise again in the Salvadoran people.” And indeed, his sacrifice helped bring about peace and justice in his country, though it took time.

The way of Christ does not end in death. Holy Week does not stop at Good Friday. The cross leads to resurrection. Jesus’ death brought life to the world. The cost of His life brought salvation to all of us.

So yes, following Jesus costs something. But it also brings goodness, hope, and new life—to us and to those around us.

Today we hold palms. Many people held palms when Jesus entered Jerusalem. But we have a choice: will we be like those who praised Him and later walked away? Or will we follow Him all the way to the cross—and beyond?

Let us pray that we, like Saint Oscar Romero, may walk the life-giving path of Jesus, even when it is difficult.