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.