6 Sunday Easter
The Church is journeying through a time of transition, both locally with a new archbishop and globally with a new pope. Amid these changes, the Gospel reminds us that the Holy Spirit is the constant guide—like the wind that moves the Church forward, even through uncertainty. Let us reflect on how to become more attentive to the Spirit’s presence through silence, Scripture, and discerning the fruits of our choices.
Listen to podcast here:
This past Friday evening, I had the opportunity to attend the installation Mass for our new archbishop, Archbishop Richard Smith. It was a new and striking experience for me.
The cathedral was packed—filled with priests, bishops from across the region, and even the papal nuncio, the pope’s representative to Canada. But before the Mass began, there was a ritual I had never seen before. All the priests were gathered outside the front doors of the cathedral, and those big wooden doors were shut tight. Then Archbishop Smith approached, and someone handed him a wooden mallet. He took it and knocked—three loud, deliberate strikes on the doors. From inside, Archbishop Miller—who until that point had been our archbishop—opened the doors and welcomed him in.
It was a powerful gesture: a symbol of Archbishop Smith’s willingness to serve and of his entry into his cathedral. The word cathedral comes from the Latin cathedra, meaning chair—the symbolic seat of the bishop’s teaching authority and pastoral leadership.
As the Mass continued, there were other rich symbols. At one point, a priest held up a large scroll, written in Latin calligraphy, the official declaration—or bull—from Pope Francis, naming Archbishop Smith as our new archbishop.
We are living through a time of transition in our local Church. Archbishop Miller has passed the torch to Archbishop Smith, our new shepherd. And on a global scale, we’ve experienced another major transition: mourning the death of Pope Francis and welcoming with hope our new Holy Father, Pope Leo.
These changes are significant. Even during the Eucharistic Prayer, I’ve had to remind myself who to name—"Leo… Richard…"—I’ve taken to putting Post-it notes on the pages to keep it straight!
Change in leadership brings a mixture of emotions. There’s hope and excitement, but also some sadness, perhaps some uncertainty.
In today’s Gospel, we hear something similar unfolding. The disciples are with Jesus during what’s known as his “farewell discourse” in John’s Gospel—his final words to them after the Last Supper. Jesus knows he is about to die, rise, and return to the Father. He is preparing his friends to carry on without his physical presence. And so he speaks words of comfort and promise: “Do not let your hearts be troubled.” “I will not leave you orphaned.” “I will send the Advocate.”
As we live through our own time of transition in the Church, the image that has stayed with me is the ancient one of the Church as a boat. And in these days, we are welcoming new captains to that boat.
This image of the Church as a boat is very old. In the catacombs of Rome, among the earliest Christian art, you’ll find simple depictions of boats—symbols of the Church making its way through the waters of history. Even in the Old Testament, Noah’s Ark is a type of the Church: a vessel of salvation carrying God’s people through the storm. In the New Testament, many of Jesus’ disciples—Peter, Andrew, James, John—were fishermen. Peter had a boat. And so the Church has often been called “the Barque of Peter,” a boat journeying through time.
Even Church architecture echoes this. The central area where the assembly sits is called the nave, from the Latin navis, meaning ship. So right now, all of us are literally sitting in the boat of the Church.
Leadership may shift, captains may change, but Jesus makes something clear in the Gospel today: we are not left alone. The Holy Spirit is given to us—the Advocate, the Paraclete, the one who walks with us. The Holy Spirit is the guiding wind that drives the Church forward.
If the Church is a boat, it is not a motorboat. It’s a sailboat. And the wind in the sails is the Holy Spirit. In Greek, the word for Spirit is pneuma, meaning breath or wind. In Genesis, the Spirit hovers over the waters at creation. At Pentecost, the Spirit comes as a mighty wind. The Spirit is not static—it moves, it surprises, it leads.
So how do we “catch the wind” of the Spirit in our lives? How do we raise our sails?
Let me offer three simple ways:
First, we need silence. In the story of the prophet Elijah, God is not found in the earthquake or fire but in the still, small voice. The Holy Spirit often speaks quietly—through peace, through a nudge, through consolation. Creating moments of silence each day helps us hear.
Second, we need Scripture. The Spirit speaks through the Word of God—not just as information, but as transformation. We can pray before we read, “Holy Spirit, speak to me.” And then listen—pay attention to what strikes you, comforts you, challenges you.
Third, we grow through discernment—paying attention to the fruits. When we face choices, we can ask: Does this lead to more love? More peace? More joy? Jesus said we know the tree by its fruits. And so, too, the Spirit’s guidance will bear good fruit.
These are ways we learn to steer, to tack, to let the wind fill our sails. As a child, I learned a bit of sailing, and it took time to learn how to catch the wind properly—to read its direction, adjust the sail, and respond. Life in the Spirit is the same.
Yes, this is a time of transition. But it is also a time of grace. Jesus promised us that the Spirit would remain with the Church—and with each of us. That Spirit is alive. It is Christ’s own breath in us, his presence among us, his power guiding us forward.
So as we draw closer to Pentecost, may our hearts be open to that Spirit once again. May we listen, may we read, may we discern—so that we, too, can catch the wind and journey forward in hope.
Amen.
