Light After the Clouds

 Ascension

Separation from loved ones is painful, and the Ascension reminds us that even Jesus' followers knew that grief. Yet Christ has not abandoned us—his Spirit remains like sunlight after the sun has set, warming, guiding, and sustaining us. Through the Holy Spirit, we become Christ’s living presence in the world, continuing his mission with our hands, our voices, and our lives.

Listen to homily here:

As you came into the church today, you may have noticed our new 2025 Photo Directories available at the entrance. And while this is, yes, a bit of an advertisement to pick up your copy, it's much more than that. Flipping through the directory, you’ll see a beautiful snapshot of our parish family. You’ll notice that here at St. Peter’s, we come from all over the world—many different cultures, countries, and experiences. This diversity brings such richness and blessing to our community.

Many in our parish are newcomers—people who have left their homeland, their way of life, and loved ones behind to begin anew. With that comes not only the excitement of a fresh start but also the pain of separation: being far from people who were central to your life.

This sense of separation is something we also encounter in today’s liturgy, as we celebrate the Feast of the Ascension. At first, the Ascension might seem like a strange thing to celebrate. But it deeply connects to our experience, especially for those who know the ache of being far from loved ones. We can imagine how the followers of Jesus must have felt. They had walked with him, followed him, placed all their hope in him. They witnessed his suffering and death—the shattering of their dreams—and then, against all expectation, the joy of his resurrection and the wonder of those days with the risen Lord. And now, once again, Jesus is leaving.

The Gospel tells us Jesus ascends into heaven. He is no longer physically with his disciples. That must have been incredibly painful. Like us, they wanted to reach out, to sit with him, to hear his voice, to feel his presence. His departure left them in uncertainty about what was to come.

And yet—Jesus does not leave them alone. As he prepares to ascend, he promises that they will be “clothed with power from on high.” He speaks of the coming of the Holy Spirit, who will dwell within his followers. In ascending, Christ does not abandon his Church—he makes way for a new kind of presence.

We will celebrate Pentecost next week, but already today, we begin to consider: What is the Holy Spirit like? How does the Spirit act in our lives?

One image that might help is the sun. The sun is visible and powerful—something we can see and feel. In this way, it's like Christ during his earthly life. But even when the sun is hidden behind clouds or below the horizon, its light remains. We still see, we still feel its warmth. Light is hard to grasp, yet we know it’s real. In the same way, the Holy Spirit is like that light—radiant, mysterious, life-giving. The Spirit helps us see, gives us warmth, brings us peace and joy.

Here at St. Peter’s, I often think of this when I see the sunlight streaming through our stained-glass windows—especially in the late afternoon. The church is bathed in beautiful colours, transformed by light. The Holy Spirit does the same in our lives: quietly, beautifully illuminating, transforming, and comforting us.

Christ remains truly present with us in the Spirit. We encounter him especially in the sacraments—most profoundly in the Eucharist. We hear his voice in Scripture. And we see him in one another, gathered as the Body of Christ. Through the Spirit, we are not abandoned—we are equipped, empowered, and sent.

But why did Jesus need to leave? Why the Ascension?

Perhaps one reason is this: if Christ had remained physically with us, we might have always depended on him to act. Instead, in love, he entrusts us with his mission. The Church is now his hands and feet in the world.

An example that illustrates this comes from the lives of St. Ignatius of Loyola and St. Francis Xavier. Ignatius, the founder of the Jesuits, longed to be a missionary himself, to travel to distant lands. But he remained in Rome to organize and lead the new community. It was his friend and follower, Francis Xavier, who carried the mission forward—traveling to India, Japan, and beyond to proclaim the Gospel. Ignatius formed the vision; Xavier fulfilled it.

So too with Christ and his Church. The Acts of the Apostles, which we read from today, tells the story of how Jesus’ followers, filled with the Holy Spirit, continued his mission.

Yes, we live in a world where Christ may seem distant. But we live in the light of his promise—the gift of the Holy Spirit. Through that Spirit, we are transformed and empowered to become his presence in the world.

I’d like to end with a prayer often attributed to St. Teresa of Ávila, one that expresses this mystery beautifully:

Christ has no body now but yours,
No hands, no feet on earth but yours.
Yours are the eyes with which he looks with compassion on this world.
Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good.
Yours are the hands with which he blesses all the world.
Christ has no body now on earth but yours.

May we, filled with the Spirit, truly become the Body of Christ in the world.

Catching the Wind: The Holy Spirit and the Church in Transition

 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.

“Are We There Yet?”: Living the Journey of Faith

 5 Sunday of Easter

Like children on a long road trip, Christians often ask, “Are we there yet?” as we wait for the fullness of Christ’s victory. This homily explores the tension of living in the “already but not yet”—trusting in the resurrection while still confronting suffering. Grounded in the hope of Revelation and the command to love, we are reminded by both Scripture and Pope Leo that we are pilgrims of hope, walking together toward the new creation.

 

Listen to homily here:

 

Are We There Yet?
This is something I often said as a kid on long road trips with my parents. "Are we there yet?" I’d complain, even though I knew where we were going. I was eager to get there, but the drive always felt too long. I think that’s an experience many of us can relate to. Road trips can be exciting because of the destination, but the journey can feel uncomfortable, slow, and uncertain. That same question—Are we there yet?—can also arise in the Christian life.

On the one hand, we believe with firm conviction that Jesus Christ is risen from the dead. We celebrate this at Easter, and we see the Easter candle in front of us as a sign of his victory: life over death, love over sin, good over evil. And yet, when we look at the world around us, we might not always experience that victory. Wars, violence, and disasters continue. We think of the war in Ukraine, the suffering in Gaza, and tragedies closer to home—sickness, unemployment, broken relationships. In the face of so much pain, we may find ourselves asking: Has the resurrection really changed anything? Are we there yet?

This tension lies at the heart of Christian faith. We live in what theologians sometimes call the "already but not yet." Christ is already risen. We have already received the Holy Spirit. We already share in the new life he gives. But the fullness of that life is not yet complete. We still await his return—his parousia—when his victory will be brought to completion. This tension is beautifully expressed in today’s second reading from the Book of Revelation.

Revelation was written near the end of the first century, during a brutal persecution of Christians under the Emperor Domitian. Christians were suffering terribly because they refused to worship the emperor or participate in pagan rituals. They, too, were asking: Are we there yet? Where is Jesus? Has his resurrection changed anything if we’re still suffering?

In the midst of that struggle, the author of Revelation offers hope: "See, I am making all things new." We are promised a new heaven and a new earth, a future in which every tear will be wiped away. That is our destination. Christ has already begun this new creation, but we wait in hope for its fulfillment.

This hope is echoed in one of the earliest Christian prayers recorded in Revelation: Maranatha!—“Come, Lord Jesus!” It is the cry of a people who live in the in-between, longing for the fullness of redemption.

But how do we live in this "already but not yet"? How do we walk as Christians on this journey? Today’s Gospel gives us the answer. Jesus, in his farewell discourse at the Last Supper, gives his followers the heart of his teaching: "Love one another as I have loved you." This is the guiding principle for our journey. Love—sacrificial, Christ-like love—is the road we are called to walk.

Earlier today, many of you may have seen coverage of the inauguration Mass for our new Holy Father, Pope Leo. Over 200,000 people gathered in Rome to witness the beginning of his papal ministry. In his homily, Pope Leo reflected on the readings we’ve heard today. He reminded us that we, too, are on a journey—and that he wants to walk with us. He spoke about how this journey is guided by the law of love, a love that is not abstract, but sacrificial and concrete.

Pope Leo drew our attention to St. Peter, our parish patron, who learned over time how to love like Jesus. Peter, who once denied Christ, came to lay down his life in witness. The Holy Father also reminded us that we are to be a people of hope and unity, a sign to the world of what true love and communion look like. As pilgrims, Pope Leo said, we are called to be a beacon of what it means to love and to belong.

This message resonates deeply during this Jubilee Year, in which we are invited to be “Pilgrims of Hope.” That poster on our wall is not just a decoration—it’s a call. We are pilgrims, yes. We’re not there yet. But we are people who know our destination: the new heaven and the new earth. And we walk not alone, but together, with Christ at our side.

So let us renew our commitment today to the call Jesus gives in the Gospel. Let us journey as pilgrims—faithful, hopeful, united—and let us love one another as Christ has loved us.