Seeing the World Anew

 1 Sunday Advent

Advent invites us to open our eyes to the deeper reality that Jesus—Emmanuel—is already present in our midst. It trains our vision so we don’t miss the many ways Christ arrives in our daily lives through Scripture, the sacraments, and the love of others. This season calls us to awaken, stay alert, and recognize the world as “crammed with heaven,” alive with God’s presence.

Listen to Homily here:

Advent can be a difficult season to celebrate. It can be hard to know exactly what we are doing during this time. Of course, we know that Advent comes before Christmas and that we are marking off the weeks before Christmas arrives. But it can still feel difficult to wait for Christmas when, all around us, the celebrations already seem to have begun. Christmas decorations are everywhere, advertisements are everywhere, and the celebration of Christmas doesn’t seem like something we are waiting for at all.

Yet Advent is a very important season in our Church—a joyful season, a season of expectation. In Advent we are really trying to train ourselves spiritually. Because Advent begins the liturgical year, it is the Church’s way of inviting us to see the world differently. Each year we are asked to train our vision in a particular way. Advent is all about becoming aware of how Jesus Christ—Emmanuel, God-with-us—is present in our midst.

As we will hear throughout this season, the prophet Isaiah, whom we heard in the first reading today, calls the Messiah “Emmanuel,” which means God with us. At Christmas we celebrate this central mystery of our faith: the incarnation, the truth that God became a human being. And Advent is the season in which we remind ourselves that the incarnation truly happened, and that it makes a difference in our lives.

At the start of Advent each year, the Church often encourages us to read a letter from Saint Bernard of Clairvaux. He describes Advent as the season of “comings” or “arrivals.” He says that during Advent we remember several arrivals of Jesus. We remember, of course, the first coming of Jesus—his birth two thousand years ago. During Advent we also prepare ourselves for the final coming of Jesus, when Christ will return to judge the living and the dead. But Saint Bernard adds something very important. He says that during Advent we are invited to become aware of the many ways Christ arrives in our lives each day.

Because of the incarnation, Jesus is present to us daily, but we sometimes miss it. Christ, Emmanuel, arrives in the sacraments, in the Word of God, in the love we show to others, and in the love and service we receive from others. Advent reminds us that the incarnation is true, real, and transformative. Jesus is Emmanuel, and for that reason he is always present in our lives. We need this season because we often miss the presence of Emmanuel—miss the ways that Jesus comes to us. We can go through life blinded to that deeper reality, the reality of God-with-us, which is so central to our Christian faith. Advent invites us to open our eyes, to see differently, to awaken to that deeper truth.

While thinking about this, I was reminded of a movie—now almost a classic—from the late 1990s called The Truman Show. Many of you have seen it. In it, Jim Carrey plays a man who was raised since infancy on a television set. His entire life is filmed and broadcast, episode after episode, and everyone knows it except him. Everyone he meets on the set is an actor. He thinks the set is the real world. Eventually, however, he begins to see the truth. His eyes are opened, he realizes he’s been living inside a false world, and he longs to discover what is real. He experiences a change of perspective.

Advent is meant to bring about something similar in our own lives. It helps us recognize the deeper reality that Jesus is truly present among us. Like Truman, we can get caught up in our daily routine—good things like work, school, chores, and responsibilities—and we may fail to notice how Christ is present in our midst. We need this season to open our eyes to the truth of the incarnation.

Advent, then, is about seeing the world as it truly is. Because of the incarnation, the real question is not “Is Jesus present among us?” but “How is Jesus present among us?” Christ comes to us in various ways—through the sacraments, through Scripture, through the love of others—yet at times we miss him. This is why the readings at the beginning of Advent call us to be vigilant, to keep our eyes open, to stay awake. In today’s Gospel, Jesus speaks of the people in the days of Noah who did not realize that God was acting in their lives until it was too late.

At this start of Advent, then, let us pray that we may truly see how Christ is present among us—Emmanuel, always entering our lives.

There is a short stanza by the poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning, from her longer 1856 poem Aurora Leigh, that speaks beautifully about this awareness of God’s presence. In it, she refers to Moses at the burning bush—the moment when Moses recognized that God was truly present before him. She encourages us not to walk past the presence of God in our own lives.

The stanza reads:

Earth’s crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
But only he who sees takes off his shoes.
The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

The King Who Wears a Cross

 Christ the King

Christ the King reveals that true kingship is not about power or domination but about self-giving love, shown most clearly in Jesus whose throne is the cross. Scripture teaches that human kings often fall into injustice, but God’s rule brings freedom, dignity, and peace. This feast invites us to place our hope in Christ’s reign and to help build his kingdom through lives marked by justice, service, and love.

The earliest crucifixion in a manuscript (Syriac Rabbula Gospels, 586 AD)

Listen to homily here:

The other day, for the first time, I received a loonie with the image of King Charles on it. Up until that point, I had only seen ones with Queen Elizabeth. It reminded me that this feast we celebrate today, Christ the King, although it might seem like a theme that feels dated, is actually very relevant. We still, after all, technically have a king in Canada. The theme of kingship comes up from time to time. You might have heard about the No King’s Protest in the United States over the summer, demonstrations against what people saw as rising authoritarianism. So this theme of kingship that we reflect on today, even if it seems old, continues to speak to us.

When we look at the Old Testament, the theme of kingship is very prominent. The question of whether Israel should have a king, and whether a king is good or bad, is presented as a mixed picture. Today we heard from the Second Book of Samuel about David finally being established as king over Israel in Hebron. But before this moment, we see the idea of kingship developing gradually among the people. This becomes clear in the Book of Judges. Before all of this, Israel had been in Egypt, enslaved by a foreign power. Pharaoh was considered both god and king and ruled over the people. God, through Moses, liberated Israel, formed them as his own people, and led them through the wilderness to the Promised Land.

Once they entered the land, the people began to ask how they should be governed and how they should live together. In the Book of Judges, the idea of having a king is sometimes presented as a solution to the disorder and moral challenges the people faced. The suggestion appears that perhaps things would be better if they had a king. Eventually, in the Book of Samuel, the people explicitly ask for one. Just before Saul appears, the people call on God and say, give us a king so we can be like the other nations. This happens in 1 Samuel 8.

God grants their request, but he also warns them. He explains that a king will have authority over them and may abuse it. As 1 Samuel 8 says, the king will take their sons for labour, take the best of their produce, and take their daughters to serve in his court. The idea of having a king, then, is complicated. There will be benefits, but also serious risks.

King David is often remembered as the greatest of Israel’s kings, but even he fell short. He had personal flaws, family turmoil, and moments when he did not govern well. When we look across the Old Testament, kingship is shown to be imperfect. Kings often bring with them injustice and the temptation to place themselves above others.

Ultimately, the Scriptures show that God alone is meant to be king over the people. To place too much authority in the hands of one person is dangerous, because it can diminish the dignity that belongs to every human being. By the end of the Books of Kings, God is revealed as the true king. God was the one who freed Israel from Egypt, and Israel was meant to belong to him. In the Biblical story, the exile to Babylon, when the Temple and Jerusalem were destroyed, is blamed on the kings who were unfaithful and disobedient. After the monarchy collapsed, the people longed for a Messiah, one who would be the true and final king, one who would bring peace and justice, one who would even be God himself. This is the king we recognize in Jesus.

In the Gospel today, we see what a completely different kind of king Jesus is. We heard the scene of Jesus on the cross with the inscription INRI, Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews. But when we look at Christ our king, he is nothing like the kings described in the Old Testament. Instead of taking from the people or using them for his own purposes, Jesus gives himself entirely out of love. He is a king who serves, even to the point of death. His throne is the cross. Throughout Scripture, God is slowly revealed as king, and in Jesus this kingship becomes visible in a new way. Jesus overturns our expectations. Instead of dominating or enriching himself, he lays down his life for each one of us.

This feast of Christ the King reminds us that Jesus alone is our king. The historical context helps make this clear. The feast was established by Pope Pius XI in 1925. Think of what the world was like then. The First World War had ended. Europe was scarred by destruction and grief. Nations were unstable. What concerned Pius XI most was the rise of totalitarianism, fascism, and communism, political systems claiming absolute authority and taking away human dignity, just as Pharaoh once did. He established this feast to remind Christians that Christ is our true king, that Jesus is the one who rules us and brings life, and that at the end of time, as Paul says, Christ will be all in all. We await the fullness of this kingdom, but we are called to work toward it.

This feast is both a source of hope and a challenge. It gives hope because it reminds us that in the end Christ will rule over all, and this king is not one we fear. He is the king who loves us, who gives his life for us, who brings justice and lasting peace. At the same time, it is a challenge, because even before Christ’s kingdom is fully realized, each of us is called to help build it through our actions, our choices, and our commitment to justice and peace.

At baptism, we are reminded in a powerful way that Christ is king over us. You may have seen in movies how people who serve a king often wear the king’s emblem or symbol. Soldiers might carry the coat of arms of their ruler. In extreme cases, slaves were branded with the mark of their master. At baptism, the priest or deacon marks the person with the sign of the cross and says, I mark you with the sign of the cross of Christ our Saviour. This is the sign that we belong to Christ our king. Each time we make the sign of the cross, especially with holy water at the entrance of the church, we remind ourselves of our baptism and of Christ’s kingship in our lives.

Today’s feast invites us to take a long view of history and of the world. In the end, Jesus Christ will rule over all. This is our hope, and it is also our responsibility. Let us commit ourselves again to living in a way that builds the kingdom Christ calls us to build.

Why Remembering Death Helps Us Live

 33 Sunday OT, Year C

Remembering our mortality is meant to bring clarity, not fear, helping us focus on what truly matters. Jesus’ reminder of the end calls us to make meaningful choices now rather than delaying the good we are called to do. When we face our limits with Christ, we discover hope and learn to live each day ready to meet him.

Listen to homily here:

 

The other day, I had a burial at the cemetery across the street from St. Peter’s. As I waited, I looked at some of the gravestones there. Many had interesting inscriptions, and a few caught my eye. One marker read, “What I am, you soon will be.” Another said, “I was once like you, you will one day be like me.” And one, in Latin, simply read, memento mori—remember death. Remembering our mortality is not pleasant. We often try not to think about it because it can leave us feeling gloomy or unsettled. Yet in the gospel, Jesus asks us to remember the end, the reality that one day we will die. He does this for a very important reason.

As we approach the end of the liturgical year, the Gospels turn our attention to the end of time and the coming judgment. Jesus stands firmly within the prophetic tradition, like the prophet Malachi in the first reading, which speaks of the Day of the Lord when God will restore justice. Jesus speaks in that same prophetic and apocalyptic tone, using vivid symbols and images to remind us that he will return, whether at the end of history or at the end of our personal lives. Because of this, Jesus calls us to make a choice. We do not know when Christ will return, so we are to live in such a way that we are always ready to meet him.

Those markers in the cemetery make the same point. The people who placed them there wanted passersby not only to remember them and pray for them, but also to reflect on the brevity and gift of life. Remembering death is not meant to paralyze us. When we remember it with Christ, it gives clarity and hope. It helps us live better.

There are at least two helpful effects that come from remembering our mortality. First, it helps clarify how we should live. St. Ignatius of Loyola, the founder of the Jesuits, offered a powerful meditation in his Spiritual Exercises. He encouraged people, when facing major decisions, to imagine themselves at the end of their life and ask: from that vantage point, which choice would I wish I had made? This imaginary moment at the end helps cut through confusion and reveals what truly matters. We want to reach the end without regret, and remembering death helps us choose wisely now.

A second benefit is that it helps us overcome procrastination. Jesus reminds us how easily we become absorbed in the daily routines of life and lose sight of deeper calls. Today, we have even more distractions. It is easy to scroll endlessly or stream another show instead of facing what we know God is urging us to do. A friend recently told me about a birthday celebration for someone who was seriously ill. Guests offered moving speeches of gratitude and love, saying things that are often only spoken after someone has died. He said how beautiful it was that they said those words while the person could still hear them. We do not want to delay the good we ought to do: healing a relationship, serving more generously, or following Christ more fully. Remembering that our time is limited helps us act now.

Jesus does not speak about the end to discourage us. As Christians, we always view our mortality through the lens of hope because Christ has risen from the dead. At the same time, Jesus wants us to know that our choices matter. As we near the end of this liturgical year, let us listen to his words and ask ourselves honestly: am I ready to meet Jesus? And what changes might he be inviting me to make today?

The Church That Rose Again

Feast of Dedication of St. John Lateran

The Basilica of St. John Lateran, the Pope’s cathedral and the “mother of all churches,” reminds us that the heart of the Church is not stone but Christ Himself. Its long history of fires, earthquakes, and rebuilding mirrors our own call to rise from hardship through faith. As the first church dedicated to Christ the Saviour, it teaches that we, the baptized, are now His living temple, bringing His grace into the world.

Listen to Homily Here

 If I were to ask you the following question, how would you respond: What is the most important church building in our Catholic Church around the world?

Most of us, and I’d probably do the same, would answer, “St. Peter’s Basilica.” That’s what we see on the news; that’s where the Pope lives, gives his addresses, and where popes are elected. St. Peter’s is indeed ancient and deeply significant.

However, the church we celebrate today has a very strong case for being the most important church for Catholics worldwide — the Basilica of St. John Lateran. St. John Lateran is actually the cathedral of the Pope. Every bishop throughout the world has a cathedral church. In the Archdiocese of Vancouver, for example, the cathedral is Holy Rosary Cathedral downtown. When we celebrate its dedication, it’s a feast for the whole diocese, because in every cathedral you find a cathedra — Latin for “chair.” It symbolizes the bishop’s teaching authority and his role of pastoral leadership.

Now, the Pope is both Bishop of Rome and the one who, in a special way, shepherds the universal Church. His cathedra, his chair, is not in St. Peter’s Basilica, but in St. John Lateran. This means St. John Lateran is the cathedral of the Bishop of Rome — the Pope — and therefore has a unique place in the entire world. Across the globe today, Catholics celebrate this feast: the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica, the cathedral of the Pope, the visible sign of his ministry to the universal Church.

Over the great façade of St. John Lateran, just a couple of kilometres from St. Peter’s, is an inscription in Latin that reads in English:

“The mother and head of all the churches of the city and of the world.”

And so, St. John Lateran Basilica — whose dedication we celebrate today — is the Mother Church of the entire Catholic world.

This church building itself tells a story that mirrors our own story as the Church, the Body of Christ. Its history is one of transformation, suffering, and rebirth — much like the life of faith itself.

The name Lateran comes not from a saint but from a Roman family — the Laterani — who once owned the land. They were wealthy, pagan nobles who had a palace there during Nero’s reign in the first century. Eventually, they fell out of favour with Nero, who confiscated their property. For several centuries, it remained imperial land until Emperor Constantine, after his conversion to Christianity, gave it to the Church in 324 A.D.

What had been a pagan palace — a place for the powerful few — was transformed into one of the first public Christian churches in the world, open to all for prayer and worship. The Gospel always does this: it transforms what once served self-interest into a space that serves grace and communion.

Over time, the basilica endured immense trials. In 455, it was sacked by the Vandals and rebuilt. In 896, a massive earthquake nearly destroyed it, and again it was rebuilt. In the 14th century, devastating fires left it in ruins. During that time, the popes even moved their residence to Avignon, France. Yet, each time the basilica was rebuilt — most beautifully in the 17th century in the Baroque style we see today.

The Lateran stands as a witness to resurrection: though it has fallen many times, it has never ceased to rise again. Like the basilica, the Church — and each of us as members of it — experiences trials, storms, and moments of ruin. Yet, with Christ’s help, we rise renewed.

Even its name teaches us something about who we are. The basilica was originally dedicated not to St. John, but to Christ the Saviour — Christo Salvatori. It was the first church in history dedicated solely to Jesus Christ Himself, reminding us that Christ is the true foundation and centre of the Church.

Later, the name St. John was added — first referring to St. John the Baptist because of the ancient baptistery beside the church, and later also associated with St. John the Evangelist. The baptistery, one of the oldest in the Christian world, recalls the heart of our Christian identity: through baptism, we become the living temple of God.

As St. Paul says in today’s second reading, “You are God’s building… you are God’s temple.” Just as Jesus, in the Gospel, fulfills and replaces the temple of stone, so now He dwells within His people. Through baptism, we continue His mission of bringing grace, healing, and peace into the world.

And so, this great feast is not only about a magnificent church in Rome. It is about us — the living Church. The Lateran Basilica teaches us that Christ is the Saviour at the centre, and we, the baptized, are His dwelling place.

As we celebrate the Feast of the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica, let us pray in a special way for Pope Francis, whose cathedral this basilica is. May he continue to guide the Church in unity around Christ our Saviour. And may we, the baptized, truly become the temple of God — bringing the life-giving waters of grace to the world around us.

The City of the Dead and the Sleep of the Living

 All Souls Day

Every culture has its own way of honouring the dead, but Christians see death not as an ending, but as rest—our cemeteries are “sleeping places,” not “cities of the dead.” In Jesus, life conquers death; the one who raised the widow’s son will awaken all who rest in him. All Souls Day reminds us that our love and communion with those who have died endures, because in Christ, death is only temporary.

Listen to homily here

I remember that when I was in high school, I had the opportunity to visit Rome. A highlight of that trip was visiting St. Peter’s Basilica. Of course, the basilica itself was incredible, but what made the experience truly special was visiting the excavations beneath it. It’s an archaeological site that must be booked well in advance—a climate-controlled maze of ancient tombs beneath the great church.

The site of St. Peter’s in Rome was once a Roman burial ground. That’s why St. Peter was buried there. As we toured the necropolis—the “city of the dead”—I remember one detail vividly. The guide showed us a little courtyard inside one of the tombs that had a small hole in the ground. He explained that it was used during ceremonies in which people shared meals with their deceased loved ones, pouring drink offerings through the hole into the earth below. Even as a teenager, that image stuck with me.

Every culture has its own ways of honoring the dead, and these customs reveal what people believe about what happens after death. The very word necropolis—“city of the dead”—captures the Roman view that death was permanent. The dead had their own city outside the limits of the living.

Christians, however, have a different word for such places: cemetery. The word comes from the Greek koimētērion, meaning “a sleeping place.” A cemetery is not a city of the dead—it’s a dormitory for those who sleep in Christ. This word expresses our belief that death is not permanent. Those who have died are at rest, awaiting the day when God will awaken them to new life. Even the familiar inscription “R.I.P.”—Rest in Peace—reflects this same hope.

In today’s Gospel, we see that hope embodied in Jesus himself. He encounters a grieving mother whose only son has died. The whole town mourns with her. We can all relate to that scene—the sorrow, the emptiness, the questions. But Jesus steps into that moment of loss and brings life. He raises the young man from the dead, showing that he has power even over death.

In the Book of Revelation, we hear Jesus described as “the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end.” We see those same Greek letters on our Easter candle. They remind us that because of Christ’s resurrection, the story doesn’t end with death. As we pray in the Preface for the Dead: “For your faithful, Lord, life is changed, not ended.” Death is not the end of the story; it’s a passage—a path that every one of us must take.

J.R.R. Tolkien, a devout Catholic, expressed this beautifully in The Lord of the Rings. In one scene, the hobbit Pippin is terrified in the midst of battle, thinking the end has come. But Gandalf, a Christ-like figure, says to him, “No, the journey doesn’t end here. Death is just another path—one that we all must take.”

As Christians, we believe that our loved ones who have died are not gone. They are with God. The Book of Wisdom tells us, “The souls of the just are in the hands of God.” When we remain close to God, we remain close to them too. The bonds of love, friendship, and faith that we shared in this life continue beyond death.

That’s why we keep traditions like visiting cemeteries, keeping photos of loved ones, or writing their names in our Book of Remembrance here at St. Peter’s. These are ways of maintaining that living connection with them. This weekend, we also gather at St. Peter’s Cemetery for a special blessing and prayers for the departed. These customs are not just about memory—they are about hope.

Today, as we celebrate All Souls Day, we do so as people of hope. We affirm that death is not the end—it is temporary. Because of Christ, life triumphs. As we pray together:

Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

The Grace of Being Brought Low

 30 Sunday of Ordinary Time, year C

Sometimes life brings us down—through illness, aging, or hardship—and we feel powerless. Yet it’s often in those moments of helplessness that we finally recognize our need for God’s mercy, opening the door for grace to enter. Like the humble tax collector, when we pray, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner,” we discover that dependence on God is not weakness but the path to true strength.

Listen to homily here:

As I mentioned at the start of Mass, I’m talking a bit funny today because I went to the dentist the other day. And for most of us, going to the dentist isn’t exactly a highlight of the week. I’ll admit, I don’t like it one bit. The main reason is because I’m a big baby when it comes to needles—I see one, and I start to panic. But there’s another reason too: when you’re in that dentist’s chair, you feel helpless. You can’t talk, you can’t move, and you’re totally dependent on someone else.

Now, going to the dentist is a minor example, but it points to a much deeper experience many people face. There are times in life when we feel powerless—when we’ve been brought low and can’t really do anything to change our situation. Think of someone battling a long-term illness, unable to control what’s ahead. Or the elderly members of our community who are losing abilities they once took for granted. Or newcomers and immigrants trying to start over in a strange country, filled with uncertainty. All of us, at some point, experience moments like these—moments that bring us low.

Although God doesn’t want us to suffer, perhaps there’s a grace hidden in these experiences. Today’s Gospel reveals something of that grace. Jesus tells us that in order to receive God’s help, we must first recognize that we need it. God can’t give us something we don’t believe we need.

In the parable, Jesus contrasts two people: a Pharisee and a tax collector. It’s a startling image. The Pharisees were known for their piety and religious devotion; they were the “good” people of their time. The tax collectors, on the other hand, were despised. They worked for the Roman Empire and often cheated people out of money. Yet Jesus flips the script. The Pharisee, who thought he had it all together, prayed as if he didn’t need God. And because of that, he went home unchanged. The tax collector, however, was humble. He knew his faults. He recognized his dependence on God, and he cried out, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” And Jesus says that he went home justified.

The message is clear: humility opens the door to grace. When we acknowledge our need, God can enter our lives.

I’ve heard many people tell their faith stories, and a common thread runs through them. They’ll say, “I didn’t really pray, I didn’t really think about God—until I hit rock bottom.” When they reached that point of helplessness, when they could no longer rely on themselves, that’s when they turned to God. That’s when grace began to work.

The word humility actually comes from the Latin humus—not hummus like the food, but humus, meaning “earth” or “ground.” To be humble means to be grounded—to be real about who we are. It means being honest about our gifts and talents, yes, but also about our weaknesses and our dependence on God and others.

So when we find ourselves brought low—when we feel powerless or uncertain—perhaps those moments are not just burdens but opportunities. Opportunities to recognize our need for God, to remember that we are not self-sufficient. And it’s precisely then that God can draw near to us.

Let us, then, imitate the tax collector from today’s Gospel. Let’s be honest with God about our need, and pray simply, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” Those words of humility are the key that unlocks the door to God’s mercy. For when we finally admit that we need Him, that’s when God can truly help us.

When God Seems Silent

 29 Sunday of Ordinary Time

Even when God appears silent, faith and prayer invite us into a living relationship with Jesus Christ—a relationship that transforms us even when our prayers go unanswered. Like waves that slowly carve stone, persevering prayer reshapes our hearts and deepens our trust in God’s love. And just as Aaron and Hur held up Moses’ arms, we too rely on one another in our community of faith to keep praying, believing, and hoping together.

Listen to homily here:

Some years ago, I read a book called Silence by Shusaku Endo, a Japanese author. I found it quite challenging, a difficult read. Some of you might be familiar with it or have seen Martin Scorsese’s recent film adaptation. The story traces the lives of Jesuit missionaries in 17th-century Japan, a time of severe persecution against Christians. Two young missionaries set out for Japan after hearing that their mentor, a priest who had gone there years before, had renounced his faith. Deeply troubled, they travel in search of him, hoping to learn what became of him and why.

Without revealing too much, the story raises the very tension that echoes in today’s Gospel—the struggle of prayer and faith when God seems silent. The heart of Silence lies in that haunting question: how can one continue to believe in a loving God who does not intervene? How can one pray when heaven appears mute?

Even centuries later, faith and prayer remain difficult for many. Faith, especially today, can be misunderstood or even misused. Some see faith as a tool for power or wealth. We think of figures who exploit belief for personal gain or of moments in history when religion was manipulated for political ends. To illustrate, imagine a leader in a powerful nation publicly aligning with influential Christians. Some citizens might celebrate, others might question the sincerity of that leader’s motives, especially if their actions seem inconsistent with the Gospel. I’m not speaking of a modern leader, but of Emperor Constantine in the fourth century.

Constantine’s mother was a devout Christian, yet his own life remained marked by violence and ambition. Near the end of his life, he was baptized, but his faith journey left many uneasy. Some Christians rejoiced that persecution had ended; others feared the faith was being diluted. It was in this moment that men and women fled to the desert to live radical lives of prayer and simplicity—the beginnings of monastic life. They longed to recover the heart of faith. Their question is still ours: how do we believe in a loving God who sometimes feels absent?

Prayer, too, is a struggle. In Silence, when the missionaries finally meet their mentor, he confesses, “I prayed so much for the people I served, but God did not answer. God was silent.” Many of us have felt the same. We pray for healing, for peace, for change—and nothing seems to happen. Others dismiss prayer as a substitute for action. We hear phrases like “thoughts and prayers” after tragedy and wish that words were joined with deeds. Yet even amid these tensions, the Gospel today reminds us that faith and prayer are not mere practices but relationships.

Faith is rooted in a person—Jesus Christ. To believe is to trust that in Jesus, God became human and revealed both who God is and who we are meant to be. Faith means choosing to live in relationship with Christ, to become more like him here and now. Prayer is the living conversation that flows from that relationship. In prayer, we speak and listen, we share silence, we let his Word shape us.

The Curé of Ars once told of an elderly man who prayed for long hours in church. When asked how he did it, the man replied simply, “I look at him, and he looks at me.” That quiet exchange captures what prayer truly is—love meeting love. Prayer may not always change our circumstances, but it always changes us.

In today’s parable, Jesus tells of a judge who yields only because a widow’s persistence wears him down. If even an unjust judge listens, how much more will our loving Father hear us? God answers every prayer, though often in ways that surprise us. Sometimes prayer must first enlarge our hearts before they can receive what God wants to give. I once noticed waves breaking again and again against a rock wall. Over years, those waves had carved out a hollow, even a cave. Persevering prayer works the same way: over time it shapes and softens our hearts until grace can enter.

And we are not alone in that work. In the first reading, Moses grows weary as he prays for victory over the Amalekites. When his arms begin to fall, Aaron and Hur stand beside him and hold them up until the battle is won. That image beautifully captures the gift of community. Our faith is sustained not just by our own effort but by those who pray with us and for us.

When we come to Mass, we come as that community. We lift one another’s arms in prayer. We help one another to stay faithful. In this holy place, we are surrounded by others who support us, encourage us, and remind us that we are never alone. So let us renew our dedication to faith and to prayer, grounding our hearts once more in Jesus Christ. May we persevere in trust, knowing that even in silence, God listens, and even in struggle, God is near.

Seeing the Good: The Choice of Gratitude

 28 Sunday of Ordinary Time

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

Listen to homily here:

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(pause for one minute)

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

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

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

Even If You Aren’t a Star, Shine Anyway

27 Sunday of Ordinary Time

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

Listen to homily here:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hitting the mark of compassion

26 Sunday of Ordinary Time

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

Listen to homily here:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Cross: From Shame to Life

 Exultation of the Holy Cross

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

Alemamenos Graffiti

Listen to homily here:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, even saints can play video games

 23 Sunday in Ordinary Time

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

Listen to homily here:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Listen to homily here:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How can we live this combination of humility and hospitality?

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

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

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

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

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

No Nexus Pass to Heaven

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

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

Listen to homily here:

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crocs in Sports Mode: Ready for Jesus

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

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

Listen to homily here:  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What Will You Take With You?

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

Gospel: Luke 12:13–21

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

Listent to homily here:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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