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.