More Than Resolutions: A New Year Rooted in Relationship

 Holy Mary Mother of God, New Year 2026

As the new year begins, the Church invites us to look beyond self-improvement and focus instead on relationships, especially our relationship with God who has come close to us in Jesus Christ. Through the Marian dogmas of Mary as Mother of God, the Immaculate Conception, and the Assumption, we are reminded that God’s grace precedes us, accompanies us, and leads us toward our ultimate hope. Grounded in this grace, we are invited, like Mary, to begin the year by saying a deeper yes to God’s plan for our lives.

Madonna di Macerata, Carlo Crivelli (c. 1470)

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New Year’s is, of course, a time when we often make resolutions. Resolutions to improve ourselves in some way. To eat healthier, to exercise more, to read more. And of course, these resolutions can be a very valuable thing. Oftentimes, by February, they have gone by the wayside, but it can still be good to take that moment and resolve to do something new.

At the start of this new year, however, the Church in her wisdom does something interesting by giving us this great feast dedicated to Our Lady, the Mother of God. On this day, the Church does not have us focus on making resolutions. Rather, the Church has us focused on relationships. We are given the image of Mary holding the baby Jesus. This relationship between Mary and her child, between ourselves and her child, and between ourselves and Mary. It is all about relationships today for the Church.

Although self-improvement is important, the Church on this day does not have us focus on that. Instead, we focus on the way that God has come so close to us in the Incarnation. Today, as we celebrate Mary as Mother of God, it is a reminder of how close God has come to us in the person of Jesus Christ.

In the Church, we have what we call dogmas, which are centrally held beliefs, non-negotiable teachings for us as Catholics. Several of these dogmas have to do with Our Lady, with Mary. I would like to look briefly at three of them this evening and reflect on how they prepare us well for the new year. These dogmas fill us with encouragement and, ultimately, they protect this central belief of our faith, the belief in the Incarnation, in how close God has come to each and every one of us.

We begin, of course, with the truth we celebrate today, Mary, Mother of God. This title is so important, and it was defined at the Council of Ephesus in the year 431. It was a time of great debate in the Church. Can we call Mary the Mother of God or not? Although this dogma seems to be about Mary, it actually protects something central about Jesus.

We believe that Jesus was always fully God and fully human in one person. There was never a moment when Jesus was not God. Therefore, if we believe that Jesus was God from the moment of his birth, then we must believe that Mary is the Mother of God. At the Council of Ephesus, the Church defined this article of faith, this title for Mary that we celebrate today.

This belief protects and defends what we believe about Jesus. Jesus was not half God and half human. He was fully God and fully human. This means that God has come incredibly close to us. God was born into a family. God was held by his mother. God was fed. God grew up. In Jesus Christ, God became like us in all things but sin.

This central belief that Mary is Mother of God reminds us that God has come so close to us in the Incarnation. As we start this new year, this is an incredible message of hope. God is with us. God knows what we go through. Because Jesus was truly human, he understands our joys and our struggles, and he will never leave our side.

The second Marian dogma I would like to reflect on is the Immaculate Conception. This was defined in the nineteenth century by Pope Pius IX. The Immaculate Conception is the belief that Mary was conceived without original sin. At first, this can seem like a strange concept, so it is worth unpacking it briefly.

Original sin does not mean that a baby has personally committed a sin. Rather, it means that we are born into the world lacking something that we should have. That something is the life of God within us, the life of grace that we receive in a special way through baptism. Original sin, then, is being born without that life of grace.

The Immaculate Conception teaches that Mary was not born with this lack. From the moment of her conception, she possessed the life of God within her. This does not mean that her life was easy. It does mean that she was able to respond fully to God’s plan with a perfect yes.

This belief is deeply encouraging for us. Often we think of salvation as God fixing things after we make a mess. We sin, we fail, and God comes in through Christ to restore us. That is true. But the Immaculate Conception teaches us something more. God’s grace goes before us.

Even before Mary could make a choice, God’s grace was already at work in her life. This is such an important truth for us. God’s grace always precedes our actions. We do have free will. We must make choices and decisions. But we never act alone.

If we desire to pray, that desire itself is already a gift of grace. If we feel called to forgive or to serve in a new way, that call is already God at work within us. The Immaculate Conception teaches us that we are not saving ourselves by sheer effort. God’s grace always leads and supports us. As we begin this new year, that is a powerful and hopeful message.

The third Marian dogma is the Assumption of Our Lady, defined by Pope Pius XII in 1950. The Assumption teaches that when Mary came to the end of her earthly life, she was taken into heaven body and soul. She already experiences what we all hope for when Christ comes again and the dead are raised.

This dogma is especially meaningful when we remember when it was proclaimed. The world had just endured two devastating world wars. Human dignity, and especially the dignity of the human body, had been terribly violated. The Assumption teaches us that our bodies matter. It teaches us that death does not end our relationships of love with God and with one another.

We do not look forward to eternal life as disembodied spirits floating on clouds. We believe, as we profess in the Creed, in the resurrection of the body. Mary already shares fully in this gift of Christ. She shows us our destiny.

As we begin this new year, then, let us certainly make resolutions. But let us also focus on relationships. Our relationship with God. Our relationship with one another. And especially our relationship with Our Lady. Her mission is always the same, to bring Christ into the world. True devotion to Mary always leads us closer to Jesus.

As we begin this new year, let us trust in the grace of God that comes before us. And like Our Lady, let us say yes more deeply to God’s plan for our lives.

Holiness on the Run

 Holy Family, 2025

The Gospel shows that the Holy Family was not spared hardship but knew fear, displacement, and struggle from the very beginning. Their holiness did not come from a perfect or peaceful life, but from God’s faithful presence with them in the midst of uncertainty and danger. This feast reminds us that holiness in our own families is found not in perfection, but in choosing love, forgiveness, and service each day, even when family life is messy and difficult.

Flight into Egypt, Giotto

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The image of the Holy Family is something that we revere in many forms of art. We have our nativity scenes. We see the Holy Family depicted in stained glass windows and in famous paintings. Oftentimes, the Holy Family becomes a family that we admire from a distance. They can seem quite separate from our own experience. They are this holy family, unlike any other family.

At times, when we think of the Holy Family, we can even end up judging our own families and perhaps feeling a bit guilty about them, because they are imperfect or a bit broken. And yet, when we heard the opening prayer of Mass today, we were reminded that the Holy Family is a family we are called to imitate. For this reason, the Holy Family should not feel distant from us. In fact, in today’s Gospel, when we look closely at the Holy Family, we see that they have much more in common with families throughout the world today than we might expect.

When we truly reflect on this feast of the Holy Family, we begin to see that it has something real to teach us. It offers a hopeful message about our own families and about the closeness of the Holy Family to us. When we listen carefully to today’s Gospel, we discover that the Holy Family was not a family that experienced perfection or lived a serene, trouble free life. Far from it.

The Holy Family experienced stress, difficulty, and challenge. After the great celebration of Christmas, today’s Gospel feels almost like a shock. We have just celebrated with joy the birth of Jesus, and now we hear Joseph being told, “Take the child and his mother and flee to Egypt.” The Holy Family, as we encounter them today, is in great distress. Herod is seeking to destroy this child. They are fleeing for their lives. They are undergoing real danger and uncertainty.

The Holy Family, then, is not free from hardship. They live through moments of fear and stress. In a very real sense, they are refugees. Because of this, the Holy Family is very close to families who struggle, both in dramatic ways and in quieter ones.

The Holy Family we see in today’s Gospel were forced to flee. According to the United Nations, by the end of 2025, approximately 117 million people worldwide will have been forcibly displaced. Many refugees today are forced to flee in ways very similar to the Holy Family. According to UNICEF, more than 400 million children globally live in poverty and are deprived of at least two essential needs, such as food, clean water, or sanitation.

There are many families who struggle in ways like the Holy Family did. And even families who are not facing such dramatic crises still struggle. They struggle economically. They struggle with relationships. They struggle with illness, mental health, and the daily challenges of raising children. All families struggle, and the Holy Family was no exception.

God did not choose to spare the Holy Family from difficulty. So what, then, makes this family holy? Why do we call them the Holy Family?

What we see in today’s Gospel is that what makes them holy is not the absence of suffering, but the presence of God. God is always with them, supporting them and strengthening them. During Christmas, we celebrate the incarnation. We celebrate that Jesus is Emmanuel, God with us. It is fitting, then, that right after Christmas we celebrate the Feast of the Holy Family, because it reminds us that one of the primary ways God chooses to be present to us is through family life.

All families struggle. All families experience difficulty. But it is precisely along that journey that God walks with us. It is within our families that God cares for us and looks after us. We can think of God our Father, just as he was the Father of Jesus, as a parent who keeps watch over their child during the night.

You can imagine a child lying in bed, perhaps sick or afraid, and a parent sitting quietly nearby in a darkened room, keeping watch, making sure the child is all right, never leaving their side. God the Father is like this with us. He journeys with us. He watches over us. He cares for us and never abandons us.

The Holy Family was not spared from hardship, and neither are our families. God never promised to take away every trial, but he does promise to be with us and to strengthen us. Because of this, we are invited to rethink what holiness in family life truly means.

Holiness is not an end prize or a final achievement. Holiness is found along the journey, in choosing to love, to serve, and to sacrifice day by day. The Holy Family, especially as we encounter them in Matthew’s Gospel, is far from the idealized images we sometimes imagine, where everything is peaceful and free from difficulty. They experienced real trials.

We know little about the early years of Jesus’ life, but we know that he fled into Egypt. We know of the painful moment when he was lost in the temple as a child. There were undoubtedly many challenges along the way. Yet it was through their loving care for one another that holiness was revealed.

The same is true for us. Holiness in family life is not something we receive at the end of the journey. We experience God’s grace and God’s holiness when we commit ourselves to the messiness of family life, to its trials and challenges. We experience holiness when we choose to apologize after making mistakes, when we choose once again to forgive, when we choose again and again to serve, to clean up, to go the extra mile for one another.

It is in those daily acts of love and service that true holiness is found. The Holy Family, then, should never make us feel discouraged about our own families. Many families today are simply hanging on, struggling to get by. These families, too, are holy, because God is present with them.

In today’s Gospel, we learn that holiness in family life is found when we choose to love, even in the midst of difficulty and trial. It is then that families become holy. It is then that we grow in the love of Christ, with Mary and Joseph as our companions.

Let us pray today in gratitude for our families. And let us pray especially for families who are struggling, as the Holy Family once did, that we may all live the holiness of family life, sustained by God who is always with us.

God in the Diapers and the Dishes

 Christmas 2025

At Christmas, we celebrate the astonishing truth that God became human, not in power or glory, but in the ordinary rhythms of family life. Through the mystery of the Incarnation, God reveals that everyday moments are not obstacles to grace, but the very places where God chooses to meet us. Because Christ has been born, nothing in our daily lives is ever truly ordinary again.

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Some years ago, I won’t say how long ago, but it was when I was training to be a priest, I spent a couple of years in Mexico. When I first arrived, my Spanish was very poor. I could hardly understand anything. But I arrived just before Christmas, and it turned out to be a very beautiful time to be there.

In Mexico, as in some other places, there is a tradition called posadas. It is similar to Simbang Gabi, if you are familiar with that. For about nine or twelve days before Christmas, people in the village gather each evening to reenact Mary and Joseph’s search for a place to stay. Together, the community moves from house to house, singing back and forth, asking to be welcomed in. The first few houses refuse, and then finally, at the last house, the doors are opened. And of course, once you are welcomed in, there is a big celebration: food is shared, and many songs are sung.

As I mentioned, my Spanish was very limited at the time. But there was one song I remember very clearly because it struck me deeply. It is called Los Peces en el Río, “The Fish in the River.” Some of you may know it. At the time, I didn’t really understand the lyrics, but the song moved me. We often sang it inside the houses during the posadas, and I remember feeling quite emotional whenever I heard it.

I knew it had something to do with fish in a river, somehow connected to worshipping Jesus at his birth. And so, in my imagination, I filled in the gaps. I built the song up in my mind as something very lofty and mysterious, something quite profound.

The following year, we celebrated the posadas again. By that point, after about a year, my Spanish had improved a little. So when I heard Los Peces en el Río again, I finally understood the lyrics, and I was surprised. They were much more down to earth, much more homey, than I had expected.

The song does speak about fish swimming in the river, drinking the water as they go to worship Jesus at his birth. But the first verse actually begins with Mary by the river, brushing her hair. I remember thinking, “All right, this is a bit unexpected, but I can work with this.”

Then came the second verse, which is even more striking. It begins, La Virgen lava pañales y los tiende en el romero, “The Virgin washes diapers and hangs them on the rosemary bush.” This was definitely not what I thought the song was about. The whole image I had built up in my mind suddenly burst. I remember thinking the song was a bit childish, maybe too simple.

But as time has gone on, and as I’ve learned a bit more humility, I’ve come to see that Los Peces en el Río is actually quite profound. In fact, I think it expresses something central to the mystery we celebrate at Christmas, the mystery of the Incarnation.

Like the Incarnation itself, this song communicates a deep truth. God works in extraordinary ways, but God’s extraordinary grace comes to us through ordinary moments of life. It is in the everyday, ordinary experiences we live through that God’s grace is found.

Tonight, of course, we celebrate something truly extraordinary. We celebrate the Incarnation, something astounding. God has become a human being. God chose not to save us by sending a messenger, or even an angel. God chose to become one of us, to save us, to be close to us.

The infinite God chose to become finite. The Creator of all things chose to enter into creation. The eternal Word became flesh. God did this to save us, to be as close to us as possible.

There is a story often told at this time of year, and some of you may have heard it. It tells of an old farmer on a cold winter night, shortly before Christmas. A storm had just passed, and the farmer went out to check his barn. When he entered, he discovered several birds inside. They had flown in through the rafters to escape the storm, but now that it had ended, they were trapped.

The birds kept throwing themselves against the windows and walls, trying desperately to get out. The farmer felt pity for them. He opened the barn doors wide and tried to shoo them outside. But the birds were afraid of him. They flew away from the open doors and continued to injure themselves.

The farmer tried everything. He scattered food, waved a broom, and tried to guide them gently toward the door. Nothing worked. The birds were terrified and only grew more frantic. Finally, the farmer had a realization. He thought, “If only I could become a bird. If I were one of them, they would trust me. If I became like them, I could lead them to safety.”

Just as this thought came to him, the church bells rang across the countryside, announcing the beginning of Christmas.

Tonight we celebrate something truly extraordinary. God has become a human being. And yet, at the same time, there is something disarmingly ordinary about how Jesus comes into the world. It is often said that there are two miracles at Christmas. The first is that God becomes human. The second is the kind of human being God becomes.

We look at the nativity scene and see that God does not enter the world in power or wealth, not as a mighty ruler or a famous philosopher. God enters the world in simplicity, in humility, in a family, in poverty. God comes to us in ordinary ways.

God does not ask us to escape our ordinary lives in order to meet him. Instead, God comes right into them.

This is why Los Peces en el Río is so theologically rich. It invites us to imagine Mary brushing her hair by the river. It asks us to imagine her washing Jesus’ diapers and hanging them out to dry. I try not to think too much about the fish drinking downstream. But the point is clear. In becoming human, God enters fully into ordinary life, into joy and fatigue, family life and daily struggles.

Our ordinary existence is not an obstacle to encountering God. It is the very place where God chooses to work.

Christmas invites us to see the world differently, to put on new lenses. If God entered the world through ordinary family life, then we should expect to meet God in the ordinary moments of our own lives, at the dinner table, doing the dishes, at work, on our commute, at school, with friends, when we forgive, when we are forgiven, when we serve, when we show patience.

In all of these moments, God’s grace is at work.

Perhaps a good question for us to ask tonight is this. What seems ordinary in my life right now, and how might God be communicating something extraordinary through it? It may be something joyful. It may be something difficult. But God meets us there.

For me, Christmas Mass is always one of those moments where the extraordinary shines through the ordinary. In many ways, tonight has been very ordinary. We came through a chilly night, avoided a bit of rain, found parking, and arrived perhaps a little tired. And yet something extraordinary is happening. We are gathered here from many backgrounds and places, united as the family of God, filled with joy, celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ.

This is what Christmas reveals to us. God has chosen to fill the ordinary with his presence. And if we have the eyes to see, and this is what Christmas trains us to do, then nothing is ordinary anymore. Because Christ has been born, every ordinary moment becomes an opportunity to encounter the extraordinary grace of God.

When God Rewrites the Calendar

 4 Sunday of Advent

Life does not always follow the plans we carefully schedule, and the Gospel reminds us that unexpected moments can become places of grace rather than failure. St. Joseph shows us that trusting God, especially when our plans fall apart, allows God to work in ways we could never have imagined. When we surrender control and trust that God is guiding our lives, even detours can lead us to something greater than our original destination.

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I can oftentimes be an unorganized person, and because of that, I live by my Google Calendar app. Now, I don’t want to make this an advertisement for Google this evening, but I do find that app incredibly helpful. I can schedule my week, plan out my whole year, and use different colours to distinguish between appointments. Without it, I would truly be lost. I rely on it. I think many of us are the same way.

We like to schedule things. We like to plan. We want to know where we are going in life. And yet, we also know from hard experience that when we make strong plans and carefully map things out, life sometimes gently laughs back at us and tears up our calendars.

Today’s Gospel is really all about this. How do we react when life throws us curveballs? How do we respond when unexpected situations arise and our plans don’t go the way we had hoped?

The Gospel teaches us that when we trust in God, God can take those unexpected moments and work something truly remarkable through them. Sometimes it is precisely when our plans seem broken or changed that God is working in the most powerful way.

St. Joseph in today’s Gospel is almost like the patron saint of plans gone awry. Just put yourself in his shoes for a moment. He is engaged and preparing for marriage, and then something completely unexpected shatters his expectations. His fiancée is found to be with child and he is not the father.

Joseph must have wrestled deeply with what to do. Should he cast her aside? Should he flee? How should he respond to this new and bewildering situation? Eventually, he hears the message from the angel—but should he trust it? Should he listen? He is faced with a profound and unsettling change of plans.

The same thing can happen in our own lives. Our schedules and plans can be torn up in an instant. Unexpected situations can enter our existence. We might receive a troubling medical diagnosis—our own or that of someone we love—that changes everything in a moment. Perhaps we have immigrated to a new country and found that our hopes and expectations have not come to pass. Maybe we struggle to find work, or a relationship we depended on is now at a breaking point.

These unexpected moments can become sources of anxiety, pain, and uncertainty.

St. Joseph is our guide in moments like these. He shows us how to respond with trust. In the end, Joseph chooses to trust the message of the angel and to believe that God is in charge.

Trust, however, does not mean being naïve or unthinking. I’ll admit that I struggle with trust when I’m not the one driving. If I’m in the passenger seat, I can be a terrible backseat driver—tense, flinching, nervous when someone doesn’t drive the way I would. And if the driver truly isn’t competent, then perhaps concern is justified.

But in the car that is our life, the driver is not inexperienced. It is God. And God knows what he is doing. Even if we don’t always know the destination, God does.

Joseph’s trust did not appear out of nowhere. We can imagine that he learned to trust God first in small ways, little by little, until that trust grew strong enough to carry him through this extraordinary moment. He believed that God was in charge of his life and that God would bring good from it.

For this reason, St. Joseph is such a powerful model for us. When we trust God in unexpected moments—when our plans fall apart—God can truly work. God needed to work in an unexpected way in Joseph’s life because God was bringing something radically new into the world.

In our first reading, we heard the prophet Isaiah proclaim that God would send Emmanuel—“God with us”—to guide the people during a time of turmoil. For Isaiah’s audience, this referred to King Hezekiah. Ultimately, Jesus Christ is the full fulfilment of that promise. In Jesus, God is not merely working through a human being; God has become human and remains close to us in every joy and struggle of life.

God could not have done this without working in an unexpected way in Joseph’s life. And often, it is in the unexpected that God does his most remarkable work.

Perhaps you are experiencing such a moment right now. Perhaps your plans have not unfolded as you hoped—or perhaps that moment lies ahead. Can we trust then? Can we be like St. Joseph and believe that God remains in control?

I’ll close with one more Google reference. My apologies for all the advertising! Think of a GPS or a maps app. We enter a destination and follow the directions, but traffic, accidents, or road closures force a reroute. Life is very much like that. We may set our destination and make our plans, but God sometimes redirects us. And more than that, God may even set a better destination than the one we had in mind.

Let us, like St. Joseph, trust that God is always at work in our lives—especially in moments that are unexpected—because it is there that God can bring about something greater than we ever imagined.

“Are You the One?” When Faith Waits and Learns to See

 3 Sunday of Advent, Year C

John the Baptist’s question from prison reminds us that even deep faith can waver, especially in moments of suffering and disappointment. Jesus teaches that he is recognized as the Messiah not through arguments or certainty, but through lived experience—through healing, hope, and lives quietly transformed. The Gospel invites us to stop searching for substitute saviours and instead prepare space in our own lives, and in the lives of others, for Christ to be encountered.

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In the Gospel today, we are presented with what is, if we are honest, a somewhat uncomfortable situation—something that might unsettle us a little. We are presented with the figure of John the Baptist, who is now in prison.

Recall that just last Sunday we heard about this incredible preacher: John the Baptist, courageous in the wilderness, calling people to repentance, calling them to prepare to receive the Messiah. John the Baptist, of course, even baptized Jesus. He saw the Holy Spirit descend upon him and heard the words from heaven: “This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.” We would assume that John the Baptist had unflappable faith, that he never doubted, that he possessed absolute certainty.

And yet, today in the Gospel, while John the Baptist is in prison, we hear him send a message through his disciples to Jesus, asking: “Are you really the one, or should we wait for another?” In other words, Are you, Jesus, the Messiah—the Saviour, the Christ—the one who is to liberate us?

This is an unsettling question, especially because it comes from John the Baptist, a man of such great faith. And yet, this Gospel is important because it gives us permission to voice doubts we ourselves may experience in our lives as believers. At times, we may struggle. We may wonder whether Christ is all we hoped for, whether Jesus is truly enough for us, whether he really is our Saviour and Messiah.

John the Baptist teaches us that even deeply faithful people—people who pray, who come to Mass, who live devout lives—can experience doubt and struggle. Each of us, in our Christian journey, encounters this. John’s example reminds us that this is a normal part of life as believers.

We find John today in a very difficult situation. Often, doubt arises precisely in moments of hardship. John has been imprisoned. He is struggling. We know that he will eventually be put to death. It is in this moment of suffering that he voices his question: Is Jesus the Messiah, or should we look for another?

We can see ourselves in John’s experience. We may pray faithfully and come to Mass, yet life does not always turn out as we hope. Illness enters our lives. Relationships break down. We may find ourselves without work, or lacking the things we need or long for. And we, too, can ask the same question: Is Christ truly the Messiah, or should we look for another?

In times of difficulty, we may search elsewhere for fulfilment or liberation. We may pursue ambition or wealth. We may distract ourselves with noise, busyness, or comfort—anything that promises to numb the pain or fill the emptiness.

St. Augustine, who lived about four hundred years after the time of Jesus, offers a powerful example of this searching. In his autobiography, Confessions, Augustine describes his long search for fulfilment and salvation. He looks for it in relationships, ambition, power, wealth, and various philosophical traditions. And finally, he discovers that true fulfilment is found in God through Jesus Christ. In his famous words, he writes: “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.”

From both John the Baptist and St. Augustine, we learn that doubt and searching can be part of our journey toward Christ. We may wonder whether Jesus truly is the Messiah, the Saviour in our lives.

The response Jesus gives to John is very telling. It teaches us how we come to know, with certainty, that Jesus truly is the Messiah. Jesus does not give John an argument or a proof. Instead, he points to experience, to encounter, to relationship.

When I was in university, I was one of the few among my friends who still went to Mass. I tried my best, though I was not always perfectly faithful. Many of my friends had grown up Catholic or Christian but had stopped practising, and others had no faith at all. We had many good conversations, and often the question was asked in different ways: Why do you believe? Why are you still Catholic? Why do you believe in Jesus?

At the time, I did not have a strong answer, and perhaps I still struggle to articulate one fully. But over the years, especially as a priest, I have journeyed with people of deep faith—even in the midst of suffering and difficulty. I have heard answers to that question that resonate deeply with me, and I believe they reflect the experience of many.

Some people say: “I stayed because when I actually prayed—when I really prayed—I became more patient, more honest, less fearful. I didn’t get all the answers, but I became more human.”

Others speak of suffering: “Christ is the Messiah because when I suffer, he does not disappear. He stays. He does not remove my cross, but he carries it with me.”

Still others say: “Christ is the Messiah because following him calls me out of myself—toward forgiveness, humility, and concern for the poor. Left to myself, I would settle for much less.”

Jesus teaches us in today’s Gospel that we come to recognize him as the Messiah through experience. He tells John’s disciples: “Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind regain their sight, the deaf hear, the poor have good news preached to them.”

How would we answer that question ourselves? Why do we believe that Christ is the Messiah? How have we encountered Jesus in our own lives?

Even though John the Baptist struggles, Jesus calls him great—the greatest, in fact—because John prepares the way for others to encounter Christ. He makes space for Jesus to enter people’s lives.

We are called to do the same. We prepare space for Christ through our faithfulness, honesty, integrity, and kindness. We prepare space by living in a way that sparks curiosity. Why does this person respond with forgiveness rather than vengeance? Why do they face challenges with hope rather than despair? Why do they respond with gentleness rather than anger?

Finally, we prepare space through invitation. As we approach the Christmas season, we can invite others to join us for Mass. We can offer to pray with someone who is struggling. In simple ways, we can create moments where Christ can be encountered.

Today’s Gospel presents us with John the Baptist experiencing what is a very human moment—doubt in the midst of suffering. It also shows us that we come to know Jesus as the Messiah through experience: through the ways he heals, liberates, and saves us in daily life.

The Gospel challenges us not to search for counterfeit messiahs, but to be like John the Baptist—to prepare space in our hearts, and in the lives of others, to encounter the Messiah who has already come into the world.

Choosing Christ: The Advent Call of John the Baptist

 2 Sunday of Advent, Year A

The RCIA rites happening this weekend remind the whole parish that the Christian life is a journey of choosing again to follow Christ. John the Baptist calls each of us during Advent to examine our lives, let go of what holds us back, and take concrete steps toward deeper discipleship. While we act, it is God’s grace that brings true growth, renewing our hearts just as He brought new life from the stump in Isaiah’s prophecy.

Listen to homily here:

 

Tomorrow will be a very important day for many people in our parish community, and I would like to explain why. We will be celebrating two significant ceremonies for those participating in our RCIA program—that is, the Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults. Since September, a number of people have been gathering every Tuesday to pray together, search the Scriptures together, and deepen their faith. Unless you come on Tuesdays, you may not have met them, but it is important for us as a parish community to be aware of their presence, because they have made the decision to enter the Catholic Church here at St. Peter’s. We want to accompany them with our prayers. As we approach Lent and Easter, we will celebrate the scrutinies, and they will join us, especially at the 5 p.m. Saturday Mass.

Tomorrow is a very important moment for these RCIA members. Some are not yet baptized and are making the decision to enter the catechumenate through the Rite of Acceptance. Others are already baptized—often in another Christian denomination—and are taking the next step toward becoming Catholic. This year we are extremely blessed to have a large number of people in RCIA: just over thirty, which is double last year’s number. This is truly a sign, I believe, of the Holy Spirit. We have an incredible RCIA team, working hard each year, but this year in particular it seems that God is stirring many hearts.

The Rite of Acceptance and the Rite of Welcoming are important steps. Those participating are choosing to say, “Yes, I want to continue this journey. I have heard the voice of God calling me, and I want to follow Jesus and enter the Catholic Church.” These rites mark a decision—an act of discipleship.

It is significant that this is happening on the weekend when we hear today’s Gospel, because John the Baptist invites each of us to make the same kind of choice. On this Second Sunday of Advent, we too are faced with the invitation to choose again to follow Christ.

Some years ago, I had the opportunity to visit the area near the Jordan River where John the Baptist is believed to have preached. When you enter that place and see its starkness, you can appreciate something of his character. In the Gospel today, he strikes us as a bit of a wild man—clothed in camel’s hair, eating locusts and honey, living simply in the wilderness. And the wilderness itself is stark, dry, and austere. Yet in the Bible, the wilderness is a place of decision and of closeness to God. It was in the wilderness at Sinai that the people had to decide whether to accept the covenant God set before them.

I see John the Baptist as someone who calls us into this same adventure of following Jesus Christ. Because he is so passionate, his language is passionate. He tells us that to follow Jesus, we need to make changes in our lives. We need to prune away those things that hold Christ back from entering our hearts—habits, patterns, or attitudes that prevent us from following Him more fully. John the Baptist invites us to take action. What are those areas in our lives God may be calling us to move away from? What bad habits is He asking us to overcome? What patterns of prayer is He inviting us to renew? What relationships need healing? What acts of service is He prompting us to undertake?

John’s call to decision mirrors what our RCIA members are doing this weekend.

It is also important to remember that change in our lives does not come simply from our own effort. Yes, we must respond, but it is God who blesses us, God who brings grace and new life. In the first reading from Isaiah, we hear the image of a stump—a tree cut down and lifeless—from which God brings forth new life. Isaiah proclaimed this message during a time of great difficulty. The Assyrian Empire had nearly destroyed the kingdom of Judah. Very little seemed to remain. It was a time of darkness and hopelessness. Yet in that moment, Isaiah proclaimed that God would work wonders, bringing life out of lifelessness.

Isaiah reminds us that although we must take steps to follow Jesus, it is ultimately God’s grace that brings growth.

As we enter further into Advent, we are confronted again by John the Baptist’s call. We can ask ourselves: What steps have I taken so far to welcome Christ? What steps will I take? God will provide the grace, but He invites our cooperation.

I would like to suggest two practical actions for the coming weeks. First, as we begin this new liturgical year—Year A—we will hear from the Gospel of Matthew each Sunday. Perhaps during Advent, we can read one chapter of Matthew each day, reflecting on what God is speaking to our hearts through this evangelist. Second, on Thursday, December 11 at 7 p.m., we will have our Advent penitential service. As always, several priests will be present to hear confessions. Going to confession is a wonderful way to respond to John the Baptist’s call: to bring our sins before the Lord, to receive forgiveness and healing, and to prepare for Christmas with renewed joy.

Today’s readings, especially Isaiah and the Gospel, present the dynamism of the Christian life. We are called to make decisions, to take action in following Jesus. John the Baptist urges and challenges us to do so as we approach Christmas. But Isaiah reminds us that the life, the growth, and the transformation ultimately come from God.

So in this Mass, let us choose to take some step forward during this second week of Advent. As Christmas approaches and time seems to run ahead of us, let us commit ourselves to doing something meaningful this season so that God may truly work in our lives. God can work miracles in us, just as He did for His people in Isaiah’s time. Let us act—and allow God’s grace to accomplish the rest.

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.