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.

Called by Name, Not by Sin

5 Sunday Lent, year C

John 8:1–11

Jesus shows us that mercy isn’t earned—it’s a gift that restores dignity and life. In contrast to the religious leaders who use a woman’s sin to trap Jesus, He sees her humanity, forgives her, and offers a new beginning. As we continue through Lent, we’re invited to receive God’s mercy and extend it to others by calling them not by their sins, but by their name.

Listen to homily here:

There is a legend told about a young soldier who served in Napoleon's army. He didn’t want to be there—he had been conscripted into service against his will. Eventually, he decided to desert and ran away, trying to return home. But he didn’t get far before he was arrested by other soldiers. At that time, desertion was considered a serious offense, punishable by death. So the young man was imprisoned and sentenced to die.

His mother, upon learning what had happened, was determined to save her son's life. She managed to find Napoleon one day while he was out in public and begged him to show mercy. Napoleon replied, “But your son does not deserve mercy.” The mother answered, “I know. If he deserved it, it wouldn’t be mercy.”

She was exactly right.

Mercy, which stands at the heart of today’s Gospel, is not something we earn. It's not something we deserve. Mercy is a gift—freely given. And just like the mother's plea for her son's life, God's mercy is not based on merit. It's rooted in love, and it restores life.

In today’s Gospel, we hear the story of a woman caught in adultery, brought before Jesus by the religious leaders. But this is not a scene of justice—it's a trap. They want to corner Jesus, to put him in a no-win situation. The Law of Moses commanded that both the man and woman caught in adultery should be stoned. But under Roman law, Jewish leaders were not permitted to carry out executions. So they ask Jesus, essentially: “Are you going to follow Moses or the Romans?” Either way, they think, he’ll be discredited.

But even worse than the legal trickery is the way the woman is treated. She isn’t spoken to. She isn’t even acknowledged as a person. She’s simply labeled: adulteress, sinner. She's being used—instrumentalized—as a pawn to trap Jesus. Her dignity is ignored.

And yet, in this moment of injustice and humiliation, Jesus responds with extraordinary wisdom and compassion. First, he turns the trap inside out: “Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to cast a stone.” He's not rejecting the law—he’s revealing the hypocrisy of those trying to use it as a weapon.

One by one, her accusers slip away, starting with the elders, who perhaps recognized the truth more quickly. Then Jesus, for the first time in the whole scene, turns to the woman. He addresses her directly. He restores her dignity. He doesn't condemn her. Instead, he offers mercy—and a future: “Go, and sin no more.”

Jesus doesn’t deny her wrongdoing, but he refuses to let her be defined by it. He refuses to let her be reduced to her worst moment. In offering her mercy, he restores her life—literally and spiritually. He is the only one in the entire scene who sees her as a person, not a problem.

There’s a saying often associated with this Gospel:
“God knows your sins but calls you by your name. The devil knows your name but calls you by your sins.”

That’s the contrast we see so vividly here. The religious leaders act as the accuser—naming only the sin. Jesus, in contrast, knows her sins, but calls her into a new future. He knows who she is, not just what she has done.

This Gospel is a powerful reminder and challenge for us—to imitate Jesus in our own lives. It’s easy to fall into the trap of naming people by their failings, especially in the age of gossip, social media, and quick judgments. And sometimes we give our gossip a little "Catholic seasoning"—we share unflattering stories about others under the noble-sounding pretext: “I’m only telling you so you can pray for them.”

Let’s be honest: that’s not mercy. That’s what the Pharisees were doing—focusing on someone’s sin and ignoring their name, their humanity.

To be merciful like Jesus, we must first recognize our own need for mercy. When we’re honest about our own faults—our need for forgiveness—it becomes easier to extend that same compassion to others. We’ve all fallen. We’ve all been forgiven. Mercy is not earned—it’s received, and then shared.

As we journey deeper into Lent and approach Holy Week, we’re invited to reflect on this great mercy of God. In the days ahead, we’ll have opportunities to celebrate the Sacrament of Reconciliation—a beautiful chance to accept that mercy for ourselves.

So let us remember today: Jesus knows our sins, yes—but he calls each of us by our name, because he loves us. Let us do the same for others.

All Is Forgiven: A Lenten Invitation

 4 Sunday of Lent | Luke 15

God isn’t a distant judge keeping score—He’s a Father who runs to meet us, arms wide open.
Whether we’re the runaway son or the resentful sibling, His love is bigger than our mess.
This Lent, come home to mercy—you’ll find it’s already been waiting for you.

Listen to homily here:

Homily:

There was once a catechism teacher teaching a group of younger students about the story of the Prodigal Son. He really wanted to highlight the resentment of the older brother and how that resentment wasn't a good thing. So he emphasized that part of the parable, focusing on the elder son’s reaction.

Toward the end of the class, just to check that his students had understood, the catechist asked, “Now, when the younger son came back—the one who had sinned and been away—who do you think was the most upset or disappointed to see him return?”

There was silence for a moment. Then finally, one of the students raised a hand and said, “The fatted calf.”

Not wrong.

The story of the Prodigal Son is perhaps one of the most beautiful, well-known, and powerful parables Jesus ever told—and that’s saying something! It tells the story of a son who went astray, who believed he had burned every bridge with his father, who assumed he could only return as a slave. But hope against hope, he came back. And his father didn’t just welcome him—he ran to him, embraced him, and celebrated his return with a feast. The son came back expecting servitude. Instead, he was restored to sonship.

This parable resonates deeply with us because each of us, in our own way and at different times, longs for that kind of reconciliation. We yearn for a homecoming, for forgiveness, for the healing of broken relationships—especially our relationship with God.

One of my favorite stories, and forgive me if you’ve heard it before, beautifully illustrates this longing. It comes from a short story by Ernest Hemingway called The Capital of the World.

In it, Hemingway tells of a father and his teenage son, Paco. They lived in a city—Madrid, I think—and Paco, a common nickname for Francisco, got into trouble: violence, addiction, bad decisions. Eventually, he ended up living on the streets. The father searched everywhere for him, but he couldn’t find him.

So the father took a bold step. He paid a large sum to place a full-page ad in the city’s main newspaper. The ad read:
“Paco, meet me on Tuesday at Hotel Montana. All is forgiven. Love, your father.”

He waited anxiously on Tuesday, unsure if his son would come. But when he arrived at the hotel, he found something astonishing: a long line of young men—hundreds of them—all named Paco, all hoping that the ad was meant for them.

That’s the depth of our human desire for reconciliation—for someone to tell us we are forgiven, welcomed, loved.

We often call this parable the “Parable of the Prodigal Son,” but many have rightly called it “The Parable of the Prodigal Father.” Because it’s ultimately about the extravagant love and mercy of the father—a representation of God himself.

And what we believe about who God is matters deeply. Some of us imagine God as a strict judge, or a distant authority, or someone we constantly disappoint. But Jesus paints a radically different picture. He shows us a Father who watches the road, who waits with aching hope, who runs—runs!—to embrace us. A Father who doesn’t let us finish our well-rehearsed apology speech because his love has already restored us.

That is who God is.

And this story isn’t just about one son. As the joke at the beginning reminded us, there are two sons: the younger, who returns in repentance, and the older, who resents the mercy shown. But many spiritual writers point out there is also a third son in this story—the one telling it.

Jesus himself.

Jesus, the Son sent by the Father into the world to seek us out. He is the Son who leaves the Father’s side not to rebel, but to redeem. We can imagine him entering the pigsty of our lives to bring us home. Jesus gives his life to reconcile us to the loving Father. That is what we reflect on during Lent—not to feel morbid or guilt-ridden, but to understand just how deeply we are loved.

This season of Lent gives us many opportunities to experience that reconciliation. One powerful way is through the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Yes, it can be awkward. Yes, it can feel hard to go. But Pope Francis, from the start of his papacy, has reminded us:
“God never tires of forgiving us; it is we who tire of asking for forgiveness.”

In confession, not only are our sins forgiven—we are healed. We are welcomed. We are restored.

So as we sit with this incredible parable today, let us remember who God truly is: the Father who runs to us, who never stops watching the road, who always welcomes us home. There is nothing you can do to make God stop loving you. There is no distance too far. There is no sin too great. The Father’s arms are always open.

During this Lenten season, may we find the courage to return, to be embraced, to be restored.

Faith for the Climb: Living Between the Mountain and the Valley

 2 Sunday Lent, year C

Life isn’t just mountaintop moments—it’s also the valleys, and Jesus shows us that both are part of the journey. The Transfiguration reminds us that while we glimpse God’s glory at times, much of life is about walking faithfully through challenges, knowing Christ walks with us. By following St. Ignatius’ ERGO—Encourage, Regularize, be Generous, and stay Open—we can navigate the ups and downs with trust, resilience, and hope.

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Faith for the Climb: Living Between the Mountain and the Valley

We live in a world filled with advertising and marketing, where every product is presented in the best possible light. If a company is selling food, they emphasize how delicious it is—without mentioning if it’s unhealthy. If I were promoting our church, I’d highlight that St. Peter’s is just a short walk from Columbia SkyTrain Station, but I might not mention that the walk is a steep uphill climb.

That’s why the Transfiguration can seem puzzling. In this moment, Jesus reveals His divine glory to His disciples. They see Him as He truly is—radiant, standing alongside Moses and Elijah, the fulfillment of the Law and the Prophets. It’s a powerful moment of revelation. But then, Jesus descends from the mountain and returns to His humble, ordinary appearance. He chooses not to display His divinity in an awe-inspiring way all the time. From a marketing standpoint, this might seem like a bad strategy. Why not always appear as He did on the mountain? Why not make it undeniably clear that He is the Son of God?

The answer is love. Jesus chose to be with us in the valley. He chose to experience suffering, rejection, and hardship. His life was not lived on the mountaintop but in the everyday struggles of ordinary people. As He begins His long journey toward Jerusalem—what Luke calls His "exodus"—Jesus walks the path of suffering that leads to salvation.

If we’re honest, our lives are more often lived in the valley than on the mountaintop. Yes, we have moments of great joy, peace, and clarity—times when prayer feels easy, when God feels close, when life seems to make sense. These are moments of consolation, as St. Ignatius of Loyola describes them. They are times of strength, like being on the mountaintop with Christ.

But more often, we find ourselves in desolation—times when prayer is difficult, when forgiveness feels impossible, when life is full of uncertainty. St. Ignatius explains that consolation and desolation are natural parts of the spiritual life, and neither is a sign of our worthiness or closeness to God. They are simply experiences we go through on the journey. The key is to learn how to navigate both well.

Ignatius describes times of consolation as rest stops on our journey—moments when God refreshes and strengthens us for what lies ahead. Think of a long bus ride with necessary stops to stretch your legs and refuel. Consolation is like that: a gift that prepares us for the road ahead.

But desolation is where we grow. We cannot stay at the rest stop forever. The journey must continue, even when it’s hard. Ignatius offers practical advice for navigating desolation, which can be summed up in the acronym ERGO (which means "therefore" in Latin and "I work" in Greek—a fitting reminder that perseverance requires effort):

• Encourage yourself: Remind yourself that this difficult time will pass. Just as the sun is always there, even when hidden by clouds, God's presence remains even in desolation.
• Regularize: Stick to the commitments you made in times of consolation. Don’t abandon prayer, good works, or important decisions just because things feel hard.
• Generosity: Go against your resistance. If you don’t feel like praying, pray a little longer. If you feel reluctant to be kind, go out of your way to show kindness.
• Openness: Share your struggles with someone you trust. Keeping difficulties bottled up can make them seem worse than they are. A friend’s encouragement can make all the difference.

Recognizing these cycles of consolation and desolation helped me understand that spiritual dryness is not a failure but a normal part of the journey. The Transfiguration reminds us that while we will experience moments of clarity and strength, much of our faith is lived in the valley. Yet whether we are on the mountaintop or in the valley, Christ is always with us. If we commit to living well in every season, we will continue to grow in faith, strengthened by the knowledge that our final destination is the glory of God.

From Trials to Triumph: Finding Grace in the Wilderness

 1 Sunday Lent | Luke 4:1-13

Lent is a time of sacrifice, but today's Gospel reminds us that trials and suffering—when united with God—can lead to transformation and grace. Just as the Spirit led Jesus into the wilderness for a greater purpose, our own hardships can refine us and even inspire others, as seen in the lives of figures like Terry Fox and Samra Zafar. This Lent, as we give things up, let us also offer our struggles to Christ, trusting that He is with us, bringing life out of suffering.

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Homily;

There was once an elderly gentleman who lived in Ireland. At one point in his life, he had to change villages, so he moved to a new village and began attending the local pub. The first time he visited, he went to the bartender and asked for three beers. The bartender, a bit puzzled, asked, "Would you like them one after the other?" The gentleman replied, "No, at the same time, please. I’d like to order three beers."

Though confused, the bartender served the beers. The elderly gentleman sat there, drank all three, and then left. This continued each time he visited the pub. The same bartender would serve him, and each time he would order three beers, drink them, and leave.

One day, after getting to know him a bit, the bartender finally asked, "I have to ask—why do you always order three beers and drink them at the same time?"

The elderly gentleman smiled and said, "Well, I have two brothers who have moved across the world—one lives in America, and the other in Australia. Before we separated, we made a promise that whenever we go to a pub, we would each drink a beer for ourselves and one for each of our brothers, so we could stay connected and united in this way."

The bartender thought this was a very thoughtful and touching custom.

This continued for some time until, one day, the elderly gentleman came into the bar and only ordered two beers. He sat down and drank them, and this pattern continued for a few more days. Concerned, the bartender approached him and, with a sincere voice, said, "Sir, let me be the first to offer my condolences. I noticed you are now only having two beers."

The elderly gentleman looked a little confused at first, then suddenly understood. "Oh, no, no! Don’t worry about that," he said. "My brothers are still alive and well—one in America and one in Australia. It’s just that I’ve given up drinking for Lent, so now I only have the beers for my brothers!"

Lent, of course, is a time for us to give things up, to make sacrifices. Hopefully, we make a sacrifice that is a little more meaningful than that elderly gentleman’s, but he certainly figured out a system! The purpose of Lent is to remind ourselves of what is most important in our lives. Sacrifices also remind us that suffering, trials, and tests are a natural part of life that we cannot avoid. However, today's Gospel teaches us a very hopeful message: though we encounter sufferings and trials, God can use them for our good and for the good of others. Suffering or trials, when united with God, can actually be for our benefit.

In today’s Gospel, we hear the account of Jesus' temptation in the wilderness. He is there for 40 days and is tempted by the devil in various ways. This is a passage I had heard many times in my life, but for years I missed an important detail at the beginning. When I finally noticed it, it changed my perspective. The detail is this: "And the Spirit led him into the wilderness to be tempted."

It was the Spirit of God—the Holy Spirit that Christ received at his baptism—that led him into the wilderness. It wasn’t as if the devil ambushed him or dragged him there. God had a purpose in this. Somehow, the hand of God the Father was present even in this temptation, in this trial. It was for Jesus' benefit—he needed to go through this before continuing his ministry and mission.

This teaches us that sometimes the Spirit can also lead us through trials, difficulties, and suffering. However, we need to be clear: I do not believe that God forces suffering upon us. God does not cause us to suffer. For example, if someone is ill, we shouldn't say, "God sent this into their life." We live in a broken world—creation is not as it should be. Going back to the transgression in the Garden of Eden, we see that our world is both wonderful and broken. Jesus has come to make all things new, but in the meantime, suffering is part of the human condition. God does not punish us with suffering, but He is with us in the midst of it. Just as the Spirit led Jesus into the wilderness and was with him there, God is with us in our trials.

Suffering can also help us focus on what is truly important—our relationships with God and one another. It can serve as a wake-up call to remind us how much we need God. Many people turn to prayer when they suffer. Suffering can also help us develop empathy; by experiencing difficulties, we can better understand and support others going through similar struggles. Although God does not will our suffering, He can use it for our benefit and for the good of others.

A few examples come to mind.

One well-known Canadian example is Terry Fox. Many of us know his story. At 18, he was diagnosed with cancer and lost one of his legs. He could have approached this trial in various ways, but instead, he was inspired to do something remarkable. He embarked on his Marathon of Hope, attempting to run across Canada to raise money for cancer research. He ran over 5,500 kilometers before his cancer resurfaced, forcing him to stop. Though he passed away shortly after, his journey inspired millions. His suffering became a source of hope and motivation for others, raising awareness and funds for cancer research.

Another powerful example is Samra Zafar, originally from Pakistan. She was forced into marriage at a young age and endured years of hardship. Eventually, she found the courage to escape that situation and build a new life in Canada. She pursued her education, graduating from the University of Toronto, and went on to write a bestselling memoir, A Good Wife: Escaping the Life I Never Chose. Her story resonated with many, and she used her experiences to advocate for women's rights. She founded a non-profit organization called Brave Beginnings, which supports survivors of abuse. Her suffering gave her the strength to help others and raise awareness of important social issues.

These examples show us that when we are guided by the Spirit, suffering and trials can be transformed into something good—not only for us but for those around us. God does not cause suffering, but His Spirit guides us through it. And when we pass through moments of trial, Christ is always with us, bringing some good from it.

The Gospel today also connects with the first reading from Deuteronomy, which refers to the Exodus—when God led His people out of slavery in Egypt and through the wilderness. Just as the Israelites wandered in the wilderness for 40 years, Jesus spent 40 days in the wilderness. But while Israel failed their tests, Jesus remained victorious. The people of Israel gave in to temptation, but Jesus overcame it through the power of God's word.

We are all human; we all fail and make mistakes. But Jesus, the perfect one, is with us in our sufferings. He is with us to bring good from them, just as He reversed Israel’s failures in the wilderness.

During this Lenten season, as we give things up, pray more, and perform works of charity, today's Gospel reminds us that suffering and trials—though difficult—can be opportunities for grace when we walk with Jesus. Perhaps this evening, as we celebrate the Eucharist, we can call to mind a trial or difficulty in our lives. We can bring it to Jesus, knowing that just as He was with us in the wilderness, He is with us now—guiding us, strengthening us, and bringing life out of suffering.

What we do (to the least) echoes in eternity

 8 Sunday of Ordinary Time, year C | Lk 6:36-45; 1 Cor 15

What we do in this life echoes in eternity—especially how we treat the least among us. If we truly believe every person is destined for eternal life, it should change the way we act, speak, and love. Jesus calls us to see others with this perspective, challenging us to live with mercy, dignity, and deep compassion.

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One of my favorite movies, which came out quite a while ago now, is Gladiator. Some of you might have seen it. There’s even a sequel that has just been released—I haven’t seen it yet, so no spoilers after Mass, please!

The movie Gladiator, as the title suggests, is about gladiators in the Roman Empire. It follows their struggles against a corrupt emperor, focusing on the journey of the main character, Maximus, played by Russell Crowe. One of the most well-known lines from the film has taken on a life beyond the movie itself. Maximus says, “What we do echoes in eternity.” He delivers this line to inspire his fellow gladiators as they prepare for what, for many of them, will be certain death.

Today, as we reflect on our readings—especially the second reading and the Gospel—I’d like to suggest that this phrase holds profound truth for us as Christians. However, I’d like to offer a slight amendment: What we do, especially for the least among us, echoes in eternity.

What We Do Echoes in Eternity

Why does what we do have eternal significance? This idea is expressed clearly in today’s second reading from 1 Corinthians. Paul, in this passage, conveys one of the most central messages of his teaching: with the coming of Jesus, death has been defeated. Because of Christ’s resurrection, we have a firm hope that we, too, who are in Christ, will be raised and will live forever. Death no longer has the final word.

Throughout his letters, Paul frequently references Genesis to explain this transformation. In 1 Corinthians, he describes how, through Adam’s disobedience, sin and death entered the world. But through Jesus, the last or second Adam, death is overcome by his obedience and self-sacrifice. In today’s reading, Paul proclaims that death has been swallowed up in victory—a victory won by Christ. Because of this, we now live with the hope of eternal life. This means that our actions, our choices, and how we treat others are not fleeting; they have eternal consequences.

C.S. Lewis on Our Eternal Destiny

I once read an essay by C.S. Lewis that left a deep impression on me. Many of you may know him from The Chronicles of Narnia, but he also wrote profoundly about Christianity. In his essay The Weight of Glory, Lewis speaks about the eternal significance of every human being. He writes:

There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilization—these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit—immortal horrors or everlasting splendors.

When I first read this, it changed the way I thought about my interactions with others. How different would our actions be if we truly understood that every person we encounter will live forever? How would it change the way we speak to them, the way we treat them?

This is precisely the perspective that Jesus is trying to instill in us in today’s Gospel.

Living with an Eternal Perspective

Today’s Gospel continues Jesus’ teachings from what is known in Luke’s Gospel as the Sermon on the Plain. In Matthew’s Gospel, we find a similar discourse, but there it takes place on a mountain. Regardless of the setting, the focus is the same: Jesus is teaching us how to live as members of the Kingdom of God—a kingdom that begins now but lasts forever.

His teaching challenges us. We often live as though the people around us are temporary, as though relationships are merely transactional. We interact with others based on what they can offer us, how they benefit us. Unfortunately, this attitude isn’t just present in personal relationships; we see it in politics, in society, and even in the way we treat the poor, the weak, and the marginalized.

But Jesus calls us to something radically different. He reminds us that every person has eternal value. This truth should shape how we interact with others—not as means to an end, but as people created for eternal life.

“Ghosting” and the Christian Life

In our modern world, we have even created a term for cutting ties with people—ghosting. If a relationship becomes difficult or inconvenient, we might simply stop responding, delete their contact, or remove them from social media. But as Christians, we are called to something greater. We cannot ghost people because no one simply disappears. Every person we encounter is an immortal soul. We are meant to live in relationship with one another, not just for a time, but for eternity.

That’s why Jesus instructs us in today’s Gospel not to judge others harshly—not to focus on the speck in our neighbor’s eye while ignoring the log in our own. He is teaching us how to interact with people in light of their eternal dignity.

An Examination of Conscience

Reflecting on today’s readings, we might ask ourselves:

• How does my behavior change when I truly believe that every person I encounter is destined for eternity?
• Would I still say that unkind word if I recognized that I am meant to be in relationship with that person forever?
• Do I truly value and respect those who may seem powerless—the unborn, the elderly, the poor, the suffering—knowing that they, too, will live forever?

When we embrace this eternal perspective, our relationships and our actions are no longer just about personal gain. Instead, they become opportunities to reflect God’s love and dignity to others.

Conclusion

So today, let us allow these readings to shape the way we live. Let us be mindful of how we treat others, knowing that our actions carry eternal weight. And let us return to that famous line from Gladiator: What we do echoes in eternity.

 

But as Christians, we take it one step further: What we do—especially for the least among us—echoes in eternity. May we live in the light of that truth.

Loving enemies (7 Sunday OT, C)

 7 Sunday Ordinary Time, C

Among the most radical of Christ's commands is that we love our enemies (Luke 6:27–38). When we witness someone living this way, it is inspiring. However, trying to love our enemies can often feel impossible. Jesus gives us some helpful guidance for how we can live out this command by not judging those who harm us. On the cross, Christ put this into practice when He prayed, "Father forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing".

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Seeing things differently

 6 Sunday OT, year C

At Jesus' time, as at our own, a particular way of seeing the world and set of values prevails. In the beatitudes (Luke 6:18, 20–26), Jesus flips this worldview upside down. Rather than the rich, powerful, and oppressive, in God's eyes it is the poor, marginalized, and needy who matter most. By taking time to be in silence and allowing the words of Christ to touch our hearts we can begin to see the world the way God does.

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From experience to Mission (5 Sunday OT)

5 Sunday OT, year C (Luke 5)

In our baptism, we all receive a mission to become, in the words of Pope Francis, "missionary disciples". The readings today show us that the drive for mission is born out of an experience of God's grace. This jubilee year is an opportunity to experience anew the grace of God and become re-energized for mission.

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Christ our Hope and Light

 Feast of the Presentation of the Lord | Luke 2:22-32

The celebration of the Presentation of the Lord gives us the hopeful and inspiring message that Jesus is the light of the world, who scatters all darkness and fear. This message is particularly important to focus on when times are dark and troubling. The Gospel calls us to imitate Anna and Simeon, who were able to recognize the goodness and grace of God in their midst. When we do this, we are called to be a light to others.

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The team of the Church, unified for Mission

3 Sunday of Ordinary Time

Nehemiah 8:2-4a, 5-6, 8-10 | 1 Corinthians 12:12-30 | Luke 1:1-4; 4:14-21

A good team is one in which all its members are able to contribute their own talents as everyone works together for a common goal. In the Gospel today, Jesus declares His mission and our own in His hometown of Nazareth. As Paul describes in the second reading, we are all members of the body of Christ, carrying out this mission in the world. When we hear God's word at Mass, it is an opportunity for us to be reminded of our calling as the Eucharist unifies our community for our common mission.

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Ordinary into Extraordinary

2 Sunday Ordinary Time, Year C

Like any sign Christ works in John's Gospel, the transformation of water into wine at the wedding at Cana is meant to teach us about who Jesus is (Jn 2). We learn that Christ is very close to married people, especially those who struggle. We discover that where Jesus is there is abundance. In addition, we learn that for Christ to transform the ordinary into the extraordinary we must "do whatever He tells us".

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When was Jesus, the anointed One, actually anointed?

Baptism of our Lord, year C

In his Gospel, Luke makes the case that Jesus was anointed at His baptism. It is there that His identity is proclaimed, and He enters a definitive stage in His ministry. A our own baptism, we receive a new identity and are given the task of continuing the mission of Christ. Therefore, as we celebrate the Baptism of Our Lord, we should also give thanks for the gift of our own baptism.

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Epiphany helps us see more clearly

Epiphany 2025, year C

The coming of Jesus in the world changes the way we see. The Magi recognized that God does not work through power, wealth, and might, but rather through humility and service. Those who saw the Magi learned that the Saviour of Israel, Jesus, was in fact the Saviour of all peoples. We pray for our own Epiphany, that God may grant us new vision to see the world differently.

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Blessings for 2025 (Mary Mother of God)

 Mary Mother of God

Happy New Year! In the first reading from Numbers (Num 6:22–27), we discover that God is always seeking to bless us. However, do we recognize how God is blessing us? From Mary, we learn how to search out and understand the ways God is working in our lives, blessing us (Luke 2:16–21). The assurance of God's support assists us in journeying forward with confidence into 2025, this Jubilee year.

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Luce, mascot of 2025 Jubilee