More Than Words: How the Our Father Shapes Us

Homily for the 17th Sunday in Ordinary Time – Year C

Gospel: Luke 11:1–13 

The Our Father isn’t just a set of words we repeat—it’s a prayer that slowly forms our hearts and reshapes our lives. Like a parent saying “I love you” each night, its repetition is meant to ground us in relationship, awe, mission, trust, forgiveness, and hope. Each phrase draws us deeper into what it means to live as children of God and builders of His kingdom.

Listen to homily here:

I was once visiting a kindergarten class, and during that visit, the teacher was helping the children learn the Our Father—the Lord’s Prayer. Perhaps you can remember back to when you first learned that prayer. I can’t really; I must have been very young, as you probably were too. For most of us, the Our Father is one of the first prayers we ever learned.

And it’s one we repeat frequently—at every Mass, and perhaps even every day. At times, that repetition might feel routine. We may start to lose sight of its meaning. We might wonder if there’s any value in repeating the Our Father so often.

But repeating certain words, even if familiar, does have value.

Consider this: when a parent tucks a child into bed at night, what are the last words they often say? Likely something like “Good night” or “I love you.” It’s not new information. The child already knows they are loved. But the repetition matters. Those repeated words give the child security. They shape the child’s heart. The daily ritual is not meaningless—it forms something deep and lasting.

The same is true for us when we repeat the Our Father. This is not mindless repetition. Every phrase is meant to form our hearts.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus teaches us this prayer—not as a formula, but as a way of shaping how we think, how we feel, and how we live. Let’s take a few moments to reflect on the meaning of the words we pray so often.

“Our Father, who art in heaven…”

Karl Marx once said that “religion is the opium of the masses.” He meant that religion is just a dull routine—rituals that pacify people and prevent change. But when we truly follow Jesus, nothing could be further from the truth. This opening line reminds us that religion is not primarily about rules or rituals—it’s about relationship. God is a loving Father, and we are His children. More than that, we are also siblings to one another, united as part of God’s family. The very first word—our—tells us this prayer is not just individual but communal.

“Hallowed be thy name…”

Some of you may have seen images from the James Webb Space Telescope—those stunning pictures of faraway galaxies and endless stars. I love looking at them. They fill me with awe and wonder at how vast creation is—and how small we are. That same sense of wonder is what this line of the prayer invites. To “hallow” means to make holy, to recognize God’s greatness. We are reminded here of the majesty of God—Creator of all things, immense in power and love.

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven…”

To follow Jesus is to be part of His mission. When He first began His ministry, Jesus proclaimed, “Repent and believe—the kingdom of God has come near.” He came to establish God's kingdom, and He invites us to help build it. That kingdom is one of justice, peace, and mercy. I once heard a powerful question to help us understand our mission: If God were fully in charge of the world—our family, our workplace, our country—what would God change? Once we’ve answered that, our task is to help make that change real.

“Give us this day our daily bread…”

Sometimes when people are going through difficulties, I ask, “Have you prayed about it?” They’ll say, “It’s too small—I don’t want to bother God.” But in this prayer, Jesus invites us to come to God with everything. Nothing is too small. Daily bread means our basic needs—both physical and spiritual. God wants us to be transparent, to speak to Him freely, and to trust that He cares deeply about every part of our lives.

“Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us…”

For me, this is one of the most hopeful—and most challenging—lines in the prayer. It reminds us that God is infinitely merciful. But it also calls us to forgive others, even those who have hurt us. As Jesus says elsewhere, it’s easy to love those who love us. The real challenge of Christianity is to forgive our enemies. This prayer reminds us that forgiveness is not optional—it’s central to the life of faith.

“And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

The Our Father ends on this note of realism: we are on a journey, and we will face trials. We are pilgrims, just like the people of Israel journeying through the wilderness. As we mark this year as a Jubilee of Hope, we remember: life is a pilgrimage. God doesn’t promise to remove all challenges, but He does promise to walk with us. We ask for His protection—not just from suffering, but from despair and evil. We ask to be kept close to Him.

The Our Father is an incredible gift. It is not just a prayer to be recited; it is a pattern for living. When we pray it—alone or in community—it slowly shapes our hearts, day by day.

So today, when we pray it again at Mass, let us not rush through the words. Let’s pray it attentively, knowing that in these familiar lines, Jesus is once again teaching us how to love, how to trust, and how to live.

Disciples Who Serve: The Wisdom of Martha and Mary

 17 Sunday of Ordinary Time year C; Luke 10:38–42

When Jesus visited Martha and Mary, He wasn’t choosing between work and worship—he was showing us we need both. Martha teaches us to serve with love; Mary reminds us to stay close to Jesus. The best disciples are those who welcome others and make time to listen at the feet of the Lord.

Listen to homily here:

When I first started my time in seminary, we had a kind of Christmas party in the recreation room. I was a new seminarian, and as you might imagine, seminary life is a bit unusual. You have all these men living together, praying together, reading the Bible together—so the way we interact and the sense of humour we develop can sometimes be a bit strange to outsiders.

After the party, I stayed behind to help clean up. It was just me and a couple of others—most people had already left. As I was working away, another seminarian walked in. He must have thought he was being funny, and he said to me, “Martha, Martha, you are anxious and worried about many things.”

At that moment, that was not the kind of joke I wanted to hear. I felt a flash of anger. I wanted to snap back, “Well, are you going to pick up a broom and help or not?”

Because of that moment, this Gospel story has always been a bit of a sore spot for me. It irks me. Whenever I hear it proclaimed, I feel a bit upset for Martha—she seems unfairly criticized. She’s doing something good and necessary, and it seems like Jesus is scolding her for it.

But the Gospel is the Word of Life. It may challenge us, but it’s not meant to upset us. When a Gospel passage bothers us, it might be because we’re not seeing the full picture. That’s certainly the case with today’s reading.

This Gospel should not be read as a criticism of those who work hard or are busy. What Martha is doing is extremely valuable—she’s welcoming Jesus into her home. She is offering him hospitality. And hospitality, as we see in today’s first reading from Genesis, is one of the key virtues in the biblical tradition.

In Genesis 18, Abraham welcomes three mysterious visitors. We, the readers, are told it is the Lord, but Abraham doesn’t know that. For him, it’s simply three travelers who appear at his tent. He responds with extravagant hospitality—offering food, water, rest. He treats them with reverence and generosity.

This becomes a kind of test for Abraham: will he welcome these guests, even without knowing who they truly are? And he does. Because of this, he and Sarah receive a promise—the promise of a son, Isaac.

This story teaches us that hospitality matters. As the Letter to the Hebrews reminds us: “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it” (Heb 13:2). Timothy Schmalz, a Canadian sculptor, has a piece in St. Peter’s Square titled Angels Unaware. It depicts migrants from all over the world, with angel wings hidden among them—reminding us that in welcoming others, we might just be welcoming Christ.

So if Martha is doing something good and holy, why does Jesus say that Mary has chosen “the better part”?

To understand this, we have to look closely at what Mary is doing. She’s not merely relaxing while Martha works. Luke tells us she is “sitting at the feet of Jesus.” In biblical language, to sit at someone’s feet means to be their disciple. In Acts 22:3, Paul says he was educated “at the feet of Gamaliel”—it’s a phrase that signifies discipleship.

Mary, then, is choosing to be a disciple. That is the “better part.” It’s not that Martha is wrong to serve—but Mary has chosen to be taught, to be formed, to give her full attention to Jesus. And Jesus praises that choice.

Still, he doesn’t condemn Martha. He simply invites her to remember why she is serving. It’s not enough to be busy—we must also be intentional. Our service must flow from our relationship with Jesus, from our identity as his disciples.

That’s the heart of the message: not a rejection of work, but a call to integrate it with discipleship. We are called to be both Martha and Mary—servants who are also disciples, and disciples who serve.

This is true not only for us as individuals, but also as a community. Hospitality in a parish is essential. Many people who come to our church for the first time tell me later: “I came back because someone made me feel welcome. I felt at home here.” That’s the work of Martha. That’s hospitality in action. And it’s beautiful.

Let us then be inspired by this Gospel—not to dismiss Martha, or idolize Mary, but to learn from both. Let us be people who serve with love, and who sit at the feet of Jesus with open hearts. Let us be disciples who serve.

Look for the Helpers

15 Sunday OT, year C | Luke 10

Jesus' parable of the Good Samaritan challenges us to examine our own tendency to judge or exclude others based on group identity. Sometimes, the people we least expect are the ones who show the greatest compassion and faithfulness. Like Mr. Rogers taught, our call as Christians is to be the helpers—those who reach out in love, regardless of differences.

Listen to homily here:

 

Some years ago, I was living in a parish in Kerrisdale, and as you may know, Kerrisdale is a very nice neighbourhood—lots of beautiful homes and quite a bit of wealth. As I walked down the main street, I’d often see luxury cars: Ferraris, Lamborghinis, the kind of cars you only see in magazines. What really surprised me, though, was that many of these flashy sports cars had novice driver signs on the back—an “N” indicating a new driver. It blew my mind that students, often on their way to UBC, were driving these expensive vehicles.

So, I began to get judgmental. Whenever I saw one of those cars, I would quietly (thankfully not outwardly!) shake my head and mentally criticize. I looked down on them, assuming they were spoiled or entitled.

But then something happened that challenged my assumptions. One day, I was driving to UBC and my car broke down on Southwest Marine Drive. The clutch was shot. I had to push the car off the road to avoid a tow in the middle of traffic. So there I was, pushing my car, trying to make it to a side street. It was exhausting, and the incline made it even worse.

Out of nowhere, a young man came running down the road and offered to help. I gratefully accepted, and together we managed to push the car safely to the side. Afterward, I thanked him and explained I was late for a meeting at UBC. He said, “I’m going the other way, but I’ll drive you—it’s no problem.”

We walked toward his car… and it was a Lotus sports car. With an “N” on the back. One of those cars.

You can imagine how I felt. Here I had lumped all young drivers in fancy cars into one category, thinking nothing good could come from them. And yet it was one of them who helped me when I most needed it.

If we’re honest, many of us carry this tendency. We judge others based on the group they belong to—political parties, sports teams, religious styles. Even in the Church, we sometimes look down on fellow Catholics who practice differently or hold different views.

This tendency to divide and exclude is growing, especially in the age of social media. But it’s not new. In today’s Gospel, the parable of the Good Samaritan, Jesus addresses this very problem.

We know the story: a man is attacked and left for dead on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho. A priest and a Levite, both religious men who should have known better, pass him by. Then comes a Samaritan—a member of a group many Jews considered outsiders, heretics, impure. And it’s he who stops, tends to the man’s wounds, brings him to an inn, and pays for his care.

The shock of this parable is that Jesus holds up the Samaritan—the outsider—as the true example of God’s love in action. It's a direct challenge to anyone who assumes that goodness only exists within their own group. It’s a reminder that God's Spirit is at work far beyond the boundaries we like to draw.

This parable should stir our consciences. Do we, like I did, judge entire groups as being unworthy of our attention or respect? Jesus invites us to see that love of neighbour goes beyond social categories, and that sometimes, the people we least expect are the ones who act most faithfully.

And more than that, Jesus challenges us to be the Good Samaritan. To help others regardless of who they are.

Fred Rogers, the beloved children’s television host, shaped Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood around this Gospel story. A seminary-trained minister, he saw his show as a form of ministry—teaching children how to be neighbours. He often told a story from his childhood:

When he saw something scary on the news, his mother told him, “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.”

Those are the Good Samaritans. The ones Jesus wants us to notice—and to become.

So today, let us hear the challenge in Jesus’ words. Let the parable of the Good Samaritan make us just a little uncomfortable. Let it push us to tear down our inner walls of judgment and exclusion.

And above all, let us be the helpers.