The Mercy That Heals: Honouring Pope Francis and the Power of Christ’s Love

 Divine Mercy

In a world wounded by fear and division, Divine Mercy Sunday reminds us that Christ enters our locked doors with peace and healing. Pope Francis lived this message, teaching us that the Church is a field hospital where mercy welcomes and transforms. As we mourn his passing, we commit ourselves anew to being living instruments of God's mercy in the world.

Listen to homily here:

Homily for the Second Sunday of Easter (Divine Mercy Sunday)

Honoring the Life and Witness of Pope Francis

There is a story told about a monastery that had fallen into decline. The community of monks was aging, and the monastery itself was falling into disrepair. No new vocations were coming, and spiritually, the community was struggling. Years of living together had exposed their human frailties, and their patience with one another had worn thin. They began sniping at each other, becoming increasingly rude and harsh.

Recognizing the dire state they were in, the monks decided to seek counsel. They traveled to a nearby cave where an elderly hermit lived, and they poured out their troubles before him. The hermit listened and then said only this: "One of you is the Messiah." That was all he offered.

When the monks returned to their monastery, they pondered his words deeply. "One of us is the Messiah?" they thought. They didn’t know which one, but the mere possibility changed the way they treated each other. Each monk began to treat the others with new respect, kindness, and mercy — just in case he was the one.

Slowly but surely, the atmosphere of the monastery changed. Mercy replaced bitterness. Patience overcame judgment. Visitors began to notice the warmth and care among the monks. Over time, new novices joined, and the monastery was renewed — all because mercy had breathed life into a community that had been falling apart.

Today is Divine Mercy Sunday, and we celebrate the incredible power of God's mercy — the mercy that transforms hopelessness into hope, that brings life out of death. In today’s Gospel, the apostles are struggling with fear, locked away in a dark room. Yet the Risen Christ enters their fear, breathes upon them, and fills them with His peace and mercy.

As we continue to mourn the death of Pope Francis, we remember him today in a special way as a messenger of God's mercy.
I vividly recall when Pope Francis was first elected in 2013. At that time, I was serving as a deacon at St. Matthew’s Parish. When the white smoke appeared, we gathered all the students in the school gym to watch the announcement live. I remember vividly his first words: "Buona sera — Good evening." He then asked the crowd to pray for him, humbly beginning his papal ministry with a request for prayers rather than a proclamation of authority.

Hearing the news of his passing struck me with a deep sense of grief. It was hard to come to grips with the loss of someone who had journeyed with the Church in such a deeply pastoral and merciful way. I’m sure many of us feel that same sense of loss.
When someone we love passes away, it can feel like the apostles felt in today’s Gospel: locked away in a dark room of sadness, fear, and confusion.

And yet, the good news is this: Christ comes precisely into those dark rooms. Christ meets us in our grief. He doesn't wait for us to fix ourselves. He enters into our locked rooms, into our fears, and breathes His mercy and peace upon us.

This is the heart of Divine Mercy:
God’s heart beats with love for those who are suffering.
The word "mercy" itself comes from the Latin misericordia — meaning "a heart for the miserable." God loves all of us equally, but in a special way, He draws close to the wounded and the struggling.

In the Resurrection, Jesus rises with His wounds. He doesn't erase them. They are glorified. Why?
Because our wounds, our struggles, are not a barrier to God’s love. They are the very places where His mercy enters in and transforms us.
Christ is a Savior who does not stand apart from our pain — He bears it with us. He is, forever, the Risen One with wounds.

This was the path Pope Francis tried to walk. He constantly reminded us that the Church must be a "field hospital after battle" — a place where wounds are bound up, not a place reserved for the perfect.
The Church is not a museum for saints; it is a hospital for sinners.

At World Youth Day in Lisbon last year, Pope Francis said beautifully, "The Church is for everyone, tutti, tutti, tutti — everyone, everyone, everyone."
The doors of the Church must be open to all — especially to those most in need of mercy.

Pope Francis’s first journey as pope was not to the grand cathedrals of Europe, but to a tiny island called Lampedusa — a place many had never heard of. It was a major arrival point for migrants fleeing violence and poverty. There, Pope Francis celebrated Mass on an altar built from a refugee boat wreckage, honoring those who had died trying to seek a better life. In that act, he showed us what it means to extend God's mercy to the peripheries.

We, too, are called to be instruments of that mercy.

In the Gospel, Jesus meets Thomas in his doubt and weakness — not with condemnation, but with mercy.
He invites Thomas to touch His wounds, to believe again. Thomas’s faith is renewed, and tradition tells us that he became a great missionary, eventually traveling to India to spread the Gospel.

In the same way, God’s mercy transforms us — so that we, too, might go forth and extend mercy to others.
In our families, our parishes, and our communities, there are many locked doors and hidden wounds. By acts of patience, kindness, service, and forgiveness, we become living instruments of Divine Mercy.

Mercy breathes new life into dying communities. Mercy transforms fear into courage, bitterness into hope.

As we give thanks for the life and witness of Pope Francis, let us remember his words:

"Mercy is the force that reawakens us to new life and instills in us the courage to look to the future with hope."
(Misericordiae Vultus, §10)

May that mercy live in us today. Amen.

Keep the Flame Burning

 Easter Sunday

Easter reminds us that no matter how fierce the storms of life may be, the light of Christ’s resurrection can never be extinguished. Like lighthouse keepers, we are called to tend the flame of faith and shine it for others. In a world often clouded by fear and despair, we are pilgrims of hope, carrying the light that leads to life.

Listen to Homily here

Easter Homily: Keep the Flame Burning

There is an old story told about a lighthouse keeper. In the days before electricity, his job was to tend the flame at the top of the lighthouse on a remote and barren coast. The flame had to remain burning through the night, no matter the conditions, because if it went out, ships approaching the shore could be lost or destroyed. It was lonely work, but essential.

One weekend, a family member came to visit. That night, a terrible storm struck—winds howled and waves crashed violently against the cliffs. In the morning, the guest asked, “Weren’t you afraid the wind would blow out your light?” The lighthouse keeper replied simply, “The wind could blow all it wanted. My job wasn’t to fight the storm. My job was to keep the flame burning.”

Easter is all about hope. It is the victory of light over darkness, of life over death. Because of our faith in the resurrection, we are called to be like that lighthouse keeper. In baptism, we received the light of Christ—a flame we are called to carry into the world to give hope, to give direction. And like that keeper, it isn’t always easy. Each of us faces storms—grief, health struggles, fractured relationships, fear, anxiety, and loss. We don’t need to look far to find winds that try to blow out our light.

On Good Friday, the disciples of Jesus were scattered. Their hopes were crushed. Peter hid in fear. Only a few faithful women remained, hoping beyond hope as they approached the tomb. But on Easter morning, everything changed. The tomb was empty. Mary Magdalene heard her name spoken by the risen Jesus—and suddenly, her sorrow was turned into joy.

The resurrection of Christ ignites a flame that no storm can extinguish. The Paschal candle, which stands before us today, is our lighthouse. It proclaims that Christ has conquered death, that His light still shines, and that we are never alone. Jesus is the true lighthouse keeper, and we are invited to follow Him—not in fear, but in faith.

Today, in this Jubilee Year, we are called to be Pilgrims of Hope. Hope is not naïve optimism. It is the quiet, steady flame that continues burning even in the darkest night. Pope Francis, in his Easter message this year—though unable to speak it himself due to illness—reminded us of the light we received at baptism. It is a small, gentle light, but one that must be kept alive. Easter is the time to strengthen that flame.

In a few moments, we will renew our baptismal promises. As I sprinkle the congregation with holy water—blessed last night at the Easter Vigil and used to baptize new members of our Church—remember the flame you were given. You were told to “receive the light of Christ.” That light calls us to reject the darkness: cynicism, bitterness, unforgiveness, despair. Instead, we are to embrace kindness, service, compassion, and above all, hope.

We are called to be lighthouse keepers—faithfully shining light for others. We are meant to give hope and direction amid the storms, to point others toward a different path—a path that leads to life.

Dear brothers and sisters, we are Pilgrims of Hope, and our hope is rooted in the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. His flame, His light, His life can never be extinguished. Let us pray that this Easter, His light will enter our hearts again, and that we, in turn, will become beacons of His hope, peace, and joy in the world.

Pilgrims of Hope: Walking in the Light of the Resurrection

 Easter Vigil

On this most sacred night, we journey from darkness to light, celebrating the Resurrection of Jesus Christ and the victory of life over death. As pilgrims of hope, we walk not alone, but with the Risen Christ lighting our path through the gift of the Paschal candle, the Word of God, and the waters of baptism. This Easter, let us choose to carry that light into the world—renewed in faith, strengthened by hope, and sent forth in joy.

Listen to homily here:

Easter Vigil Homily: Pilgrims of Hope

This evening, we are truly pilgrims of hope. Tonight is a night of joy and of radiant hope in the resurrection of Jesus Christ. Over the past three days, we have journeyed together through the sacred pilgrimage of the Triduum—Holy Thursday, Good Friday, and now, at last, the celebration of Easter.

Yesterday, on Good Friday, we stood at Golgotha, the hill of crucifixion, commemorated within the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. There, we reflected on the meaning of Jesus’ death: His merciful intervention in the midst of our sin, and the truth that He never leaves us alone. This evening, in our hearts, we continue that pilgrimage. From the chapel of Calvary, we descend the worn stone steps of the Sepulchre, cross the church, and stoop to enter the small, ancient shrine known as the edicule—the very site where Jesus was laid in the tomb. That quiet, unassuming space is the place where we believe the Resurrection occurred.

Each year in the Eastern Orthodox tradition, a remarkable event unfolds at the edicule: a flame is said to emerge mysteriously from the tomb, and one by one, those present light their candles from it. The light spreads throughout the entire church, filling the space with the glow of the Resurrection. In our own celebration this evening, we began with the blessing of the new fire, kindled outside in the darkness. From it, the Paschal candle was lit—symbolizing the Risen Christ—and from that candle, our own tapers were lit. As each flame passed from one person to another, we witnessed a living image of how Christ’s Resurrection spreads light into every corner of the world.

That light will return again later in the Vigil, when our catechumens are baptized. They will receive a candle lit from the Paschal flame, just as we all did at our own baptisms. These candles remind us that our Christian life is a journey—a pilgrimage—lit by the light of Christ. Without it, we walk in darkness. As some of you experienced when entering the church this evening, it’s difficult to walk without light. But once the lights are lit, we can see clearly. So too in our faith: Christ illumines our path.

We heard tonight the long but beautiful series of readings that trace the history of salvation—our family story in the faith. Much like a beloved elder at a family gathering who recounts where we’ve come from and what we’ve been through, these readings remind us of who we are and whose we are. They tell us of God's enduring faithfulness, His constant guidance through creation, Exodus, covenant, exile, and finally the coming of His Son. These stories are not just ancient texts—they shape our identity and give us confidence for the road ahead. Because God has been faithful in the past, we know He will be with us in the future. That is what makes us pilgrims of hope.

St. Paul tells us in the epistle tonight that through baptism, we are buried with Christ so that we might walk in newness of life. This walking—this journeying—is the essence of Christian life. From the earliest days, as we see in the Acts of the Apostles, being a Christian was called “the Way.” It was—and is—a path. As Christians, we love the world deeply, but we also walk a distinct path within it, following Christ. Our choices, our relationships, our values—all are transformed because we carry the light of the Risen Christ.

We have just heard the Gospel: “He is not here. He is risen.” This announcement, made first to the women at the tomb, echoes across time to us tonight. And so, we must ask: Do we truly believe this? Do we believe that Christ died and rose again—and that we, too, will rise with Him? If we do, then it changes everything. It changes how we live, how we treat others, how we love. The belief in the Resurrection becomes the flame that lights every step of our journey.

We are called, then, to carry that light. To look not for the darkness in the world, but to seek out the light. To recognize God's blessings, to name them, to amplify them. And then to become light for others—to be hope and joy for those around us.

So tonight, whether you are receiving the light of Christ for the first time in baptism, or renewing the promises made long ago, let this incredible movement—from darkness to light, from death to life—leave a lasting imprint on your heart. Let us leave this church as pilgrims—but always, pilgrims of hope.