Even If You Aren’t a Star, Shine Anyway

27 Sunday of Ordinary Time

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

Listen to homily here:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hitting the mark of compassion

26 Sunday of Ordinary Time

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

Listen to homily here:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Cross: From Shame to Life

 Exultation of the Holy Cross

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

Alemamenos Graffiti

Listen to homily here:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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