Called by Name, Not by Sin

5 Sunday Lent, year C

John 8:1–11

Jesus shows us that mercy isn’t earned—it’s a gift that restores dignity and life. In contrast to the religious leaders who use a woman’s sin to trap Jesus, He sees her humanity, forgives her, and offers a new beginning. As we continue through Lent, we’re invited to receive God’s mercy and extend it to others by calling them not by their sins, but by their name.

Listen to homily here:

There is a legend told about a young soldier who served in Napoleon's army. He didn’t want to be there—he had been conscripted into service against his will. Eventually, he decided to desert and ran away, trying to return home. But he didn’t get far before he was arrested by other soldiers. At that time, desertion was considered a serious offense, punishable by death. So the young man was imprisoned and sentenced to die.

His mother, upon learning what had happened, was determined to save her son's life. She managed to find Napoleon one day while he was out in public and begged him to show mercy. Napoleon replied, “But your son does not deserve mercy.” The mother answered, “I know. If he deserved it, it wouldn’t be mercy.”

She was exactly right.

Mercy, which stands at the heart of today’s Gospel, is not something we earn. It's not something we deserve. Mercy is a gift—freely given. And just like the mother's plea for her son's life, God's mercy is not based on merit. It's rooted in love, and it restores life.

In today’s Gospel, we hear the story of a woman caught in adultery, brought before Jesus by the religious leaders. But this is not a scene of justice—it's a trap. They want to corner Jesus, to put him in a no-win situation. The Law of Moses commanded that both the man and woman caught in adultery should be stoned. But under Roman law, Jewish leaders were not permitted to carry out executions. So they ask Jesus, essentially: “Are you going to follow Moses or the Romans?” Either way, they think, he’ll be discredited.

But even worse than the legal trickery is the way the woman is treated. She isn’t spoken to. She isn’t even acknowledged as a person. She’s simply labeled: adulteress, sinner. She's being used—instrumentalized—as a pawn to trap Jesus. Her dignity is ignored.

And yet, in this moment of injustice and humiliation, Jesus responds with extraordinary wisdom and compassion. First, he turns the trap inside out: “Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to cast a stone.” He's not rejecting the law—he’s revealing the hypocrisy of those trying to use it as a weapon.

One by one, her accusers slip away, starting with the elders, who perhaps recognized the truth more quickly. Then Jesus, for the first time in the whole scene, turns to the woman. He addresses her directly. He restores her dignity. He doesn't condemn her. Instead, he offers mercy—and a future: “Go, and sin no more.”

Jesus doesn’t deny her wrongdoing, but he refuses to let her be defined by it. He refuses to let her be reduced to her worst moment. In offering her mercy, he restores her life—literally and spiritually. He is the only one in the entire scene who sees her as a person, not a problem.

There’s a saying often associated with this Gospel:
“God knows your sins but calls you by your name. The devil knows your name but calls you by your sins.”

That’s the contrast we see so vividly here. The religious leaders act as the accuser—naming only the sin. Jesus, in contrast, knows her sins, but calls her into a new future. He knows who she is, not just what she has done.

This Gospel is a powerful reminder and challenge for us—to imitate Jesus in our own lives. It’s easy to fall into the trap of naming people by their failings, especially in the age of gossip, social media, and quick judgments. And sometimes we give our gossip a little "Catholic seasoning"—we share unflattering stories about others under the noble-sounding pretext: “I’m only telling you so you can pray for them.”

Let’s be honest: that’s not mercy. That’s what the Pharisees were doing—focusing on someone’s sin and ignoring their name, their humanity.

To be merciful like Jesus, we must first recognize our own need for mercy. When we’re honest about our own faults—our need for forgiveness—it becomes easier to extend that same compassion to others. We’ve all fallen. We’ve all been forgiven. Mercy is not earned—it’s received, and then shared.

As we journey deeper into Lent and approach Holy Week, we’re invited to reflect on this great mercy of God. In the days ahead, we’ll have opportunities to celebrate the Sacrament of Reconciliation—a beautiful chance to accept that mercy for ourselves.

So let us remember today: Jesus knows our sins, yes—but he calls each of us by our name, because he loves us. Let us do the same for others.

All Is Forgiven: A Lenten Invitation

 4 Sunday of Lent | Luke 15

God isn’t a distant judge keeping score—He’s a Father who runs to meet us, arms wide open.
Whether we’re the runaway son or the resentful sibling, His love is bigger than our mess.
This Lent, come home to mercy—you’ll find it’s already been waiting for you.

Listen to homily here:

Homily:

There was once a catechism teacher teaching a group of younger students about the story of the Prodigal Son. He really wanted to highlight the resentment of the older brother and how that resentment wasn't a good thing. So he emphasized that part of the parable, focusing on the elder son’s reaction.

Toward the end of the class, just to check that his students had understood, the catechist asked, “Now, when the younger son came back—the one who had sinned and been away—who do you think was the most upset or disappointed to see him return?”

There was silence for a moment. Then finally, one of the students raised a hand and said, “The fatted calf.”

Not wrong.

The story of the Prodigal Son is perhaps one of the most beautiful, well-known, and powerful parables Jesus ever told—and that’s saying something! It tells the story of a son who went astray, who believed he had burned every bridge with his father, who assumed he could only return as a slave. But hope against hope, he came back. And his father didn’t just welcome him—he ran to him, embraced him, and celebrated his return with a feast. The son came back expecting servitude. Instead, he was restored to sonship.

This parable resonates deeply with us because each of us, in our own way and at different times, longs for that kind of reconciliation. We yearn for a homecoming, for forgiveness, for the healing of broken relationships—especially our relationship with God.

One of my favorite stories, and forgive me if you’ve heard it before, beautifully illustrates this longing. It comes from a short story by Ernest Hemingway called The Capital of the World.

In it, Hemingway tells of a father and his teenage son, Paco. They lived in a city—Madrid, I think—and Paco, a common nickname for Francisco, got into trouble: violence, addiction, bad decisions. Eventually, he ended up living on the streets. The father searched everywhere for him, but he couldn’t find him.

So the father took a bold step. He paid a large sum to place a full-page ad in the city’s main newspaper. The ad read:
“Paco, meet me on Tuesday at Hotel Montana. All is forgiven. Love, your father.”

He waited anxiously on Tuesday, unsure if his son would come. But when he arrived at the hotel, he found something astonishing: a long line of young men—hundreds of them—all named Paco, all hoping that the ad was meant for them.

That’s the depth of our human desire for reconciliation—for someone to tell us we are forgiven, welcomed, loved.

We often call this parable the “Parable of the Prodigal Son,” but many have rightly called it “The Parable of the Prodigal Father.” Because it’s ultimately about the extravagant love and mercy of the father—a representation of God himself.

And what we believe about who God is matters deeply. Some of us imagine God as a strict judge, or a distant authority, or someone we constantly disappoint. But Jesus paints a radically different picture. He shows us a Father who watches the road, who waits with aching hope, who runs—runs!—to embrace us. A Father who doesn’t let us finish our well-rehearsed apology speech because his love has already restored us.

That is who God is.

And this story isn’t just about one son. As the joke at the beginning reminded us, there are two sons: the younger, who returns in repentance, and the older, who resents the mercy shown. But many spiritual writers point out there is also a third son in this story—the one telling it.

Jesus himself.

Jesus, the Son sent by the Father into the world to seek us out. He is the Son who leaves the Father’s side not to rebel, but to redeem. We can imagine him entering the pigsty of our lives to bring us home. Jesus gives his life to reconcile us to the loving Father. That is what we reflect on during Lent—not to feel morbid or guilt-ridden, but to understand just how deeply we are loved.

This season of Lent gives us many opportunities to experience that reconciliation. One powerful way is through the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Yes, it can be awkward. Yes, it can feel hard to go. But Pope Francis, from the start of his papacy, has reminded us:
“God never tires of forgiving us; it is we who tire of asking for forgiveness.”

In confession, not only are our sins forgiven—we are healed. We are welcomed. We are restored.

So as we sit with this incredible parable today, let us remember who God truly is: the Father who runs to us, who never stops watching the road, who always welcomes us home. There is nothing you can do to make God stop loving you. There is no distance too far. There is no sin too great. The Father’s arms are always open.

During this Lenten season, may we find the courage to return, to be embraced, to be restored.

Faith for the Climb: Living Between the Mountain and the Valley

 2 Sunday Lent, year C

Life isn’t just mountaintop moments—it’s also the valleys, and Jesus shows us that both are part of the journey. The Transfiguration reminds us that while we glimpse God’s glory at times, much of life is about walking faithfully through challenges, knowing Christ walks with us. By following St. Ignatius’ ERGO—Encourage, Regularize, be Generous, and stay Open—we can navigate the ups and downs with trust, resilience, and hope.

Listen to homily:

Read full homily:

Faith for the Climb: Living Between the Mountain and the Valley

We live in a world filled with advertising and marketing, where every product is presented in the best possible light. If a company is selling food, they emphasize how delicious it is—without mentioning if it’s unhealthy. If I were promoting our church, I’d highlight that St. Peter’s is just a short walk from Columbia SkyTrain Station, but I might not mention that the walk is a steep uphill climb.

That’s why the Transfiguration can seem puzzling. In this moment, Jesus reveals His divine glory to His disciples. They see Him as He truly is—radiant, standing alongside Moses and Elijah, the fulfillment of the Law and the Prophets. It’s a powerful moment of revelation. But then, Jesus descends from the mountain and returns to His humble, ordinary appearance. He chooses not to display His divinity in an awe-inspiring way all the time. From a marketing standpoint, this might seem like a bad strategy. Why not always appear as He did on the mountain? Why not make it undeniably clear that He is the Son of God?

The answer is love. Jesus chose to be with us in the valley. He chose to experience suffering, rejection, and hardship. His life was not lived on the mountaintop but in the everyday struggles of ordinary people. As He begins His long journey toward Jerusalem—what Luke calls His "exodus"—Jesus walks the path of suffering that leads to salvation.

If we’re honest, our lives are more often lived in the valley than on the mountaintop. Yes, we have moments of great joy, peace, and clarity—times when prayer feels easy, when God feels close, when life seems to make sense. These are moments of consolation, as St. Ignatius of Loyola describes them. They are times of strength, like being on the mountaintop with Christ.

But more often, we find ourselves in desolation—times when prayer is difficult, when forgiveness feels impossible, when life is full of uncertainty. St. Ignatius explains that consolation and desolation are natural parts of the spiritual life, and neither is a sign of our worthiness or closeness to God. They are simply experiences we go through on the journey. The key is to learn how to navigate both well.

Ignatius describes times of consolation as rest stops on our journey—moments when God refreshes and strengthens us for what lies ahead. Think of a long bus ride with necessary stops to stretch your legs and refuel. Consolation is like that: a gift that prepares us for the road ahead.

But desolation is where we grow. We cannot stay at the rest stop forever. The journey must continue, even when it’s hard. Ignatius offers practical advice for navigating desolation, which can be summed up in the acronym ERGO (which means "therefore" in Latin and "I work" in Greek—a fitting reminder that perseverance requires effort):

• Encourage yourself: Remind yourself that this difficult time will pass. Just as the sun is always there, even when hidden by clouds, God's presence remains even in desolation.
• Regularize: Stick to the commitments you made in times of consolation. Don’t abandon prayer, good works, or important decisions just because things feel hard.
• Generosity: Go against your resistance. If you don’t feel like praying, pray a little longer. If you feel reluctant to be kind, go out of your way to show kindness.
• Openness: Share your struggles with someone you trust. Keeping difficulties bottled up can make them seem worse than they are. A friend’s encouragement can make all the difference.

Recognizing these cycles of consolation and desolation helped me understand that spiritual dryness is not a failure but a normal part of the journey. The Transfiguration reminds us that while we will experience moments of clarity and strength, much of our faith is lived in the valley. Yet whether we are on the mountaintop or in the valley, Christ is always with us. If we commit to living well in every season, we will continue to grow in faith, strengthened by the knowledge that our final destination is the glory of God.