Crocs in Sports Mode: Ready for Jesus

19 Sunday of Ordinary Time, C,  (Luke 12:35–40)

Jesus calls us to live each day prepared to meet Him, like servants waiting for their master’s return. St. Polycarp’s lifelong faithfulness and the daily habits of the early Christians show us that readiness comes from steady prayer, worship, and acts of love. By keeping our hearts in “spiritual sports mode,” we can welcome Christ with joy whenever He comes.

Listen to homily here:  

You might have heard of shoes called Crocs. They’re big, chunky, foam-like shoes — not exactly elegant, but very comfortable, and quite popular with young people these days. I’m not wearing them right now (though I probably will after Mass).

One day I was talking with one of the Grade 7 students in our catechism program, and he explained to me that Crocs have two modes. The first is the relaxed mode — the strap is flipped forward so you can slide your foot in and out easily. The second is “sports mode” — you flip the strap back around your heel, and suddenly you’re ready for anything. In sports mode, you can run, play, or even escape if someone starts chasing you! It’s the mode of being prepared.

That image of “sports mode” came to mind as I listened to today’s Gospel. Jesus calls us to be ready at all times, like servants prepared for their master’s return. If Jesus were to come here and now, to meet us face to face, would we be ready?

This readiness is central to the heart of Christian discipleship. In his earliest letters — like 1 Thessalonians — St. Paul urged Christians to live in constant expectation of Christ’s return. Even when it became clear that the Second Coming might not be in just a few years, the early Church maintained a way of life that kept their hearts prepared for whenever the Lord might come.

A beautiful example of this is St. Polycarp, martyred in the year 155. Tradition tells us he was a disciple of St. John the Apostle, who himself was a disciple of Jesus — a living link to the Lord. Polycarp was bishop of Smyrna (modern-day Turkey) during a time when Christians were being persecuted for refusing to worship the Roman emperor.

When the authorities came to arrest him, Polycarp had the chance to flee, but chose to remain. At his trial, the governor gave him the choice: honour Caesar as divine and deny Christ, or face death. Polycarp replied with his famous words:

“Eighty-six years I have served Him, and He has done me no wrong. How can I blaspheme my King who saved me?”

He was executed soon after — but he met that moment not with fear, but with the readiness of a heart that had spent a lifetime walking with Christ.

This readiness is not something we develop overnight. It’s formed in the small, daily habits of faith. It shapes our decisions: before we act, we can ask ourselves, If I had to explain this to Jesus tomorrow, would I be comfortable? It urges us not to delay doing good — forgiving someone, reconciling a relationship, serving where God calls — because we may not get another chance.

And readiness also fills us with hope. We remember that the One we await is not a stranger or a harsh judge, but the Saviour who laid down His life for us. The early Christians often prayed in Aramaic, Marana tha — “Come, Lord Jesus.” They longed to see Him, just as we should.

Daily prayer, Sunday Mass, reading Scripture — these simple practices keep our hearts in “sports mode” for the spiritual life. I once had a Latin professor at seminary, an older Swiss monk, who would say, “I might give you a pop quiz any day, so always be ready.” I was always nervous, trying to guess when the test would come. One of my classmates, though, was always calm. His secret? He just kept up with the material every day. No cramming, no guessing — just steady readiness.

The Christian life works the same way. Small, faithful practices day by day mean we won’t be caught unprepared when Christ comes — whether at the end of our lives or at His return in glory.

So let us live with the heart of St. Polycarp, the prayer of the early Christians, and — as that Grade 7 student reminded me — the attitude of wearing our Crocs in sports mode: ready for anything, ready for Jesus, ready to meet the One we love.

What Will You Take With You?

 Homily for the 18th Sunday in Ordinary Time – Year C

Gospel: Luke 12:13–21

Jesus reminds us that while material needs are real and pressing—especially in a city like Vancouver—they must not become our ultimate concern. Like the ghost towns left behind after the gold rush, worldly treasures don’t last. True riches are found in what we give away: love, service, and relationships that endure into eternity.

Listent to homily here:

You might be aware that here in British Columbia, there are a number of places known as ghost towns. Some of you may have even visited one, like Barkerville, which is perhaps the most famous. I’ve never been myself, but I find them fascinating. I enjoy reading their stories and looking at photos. There’s something captivating about places that were once bustling with life and have since fallen silent.

Take Barkerville, for example. It was founded in 1862—just two years after St. Peter’s Parish was established. It sprang up during the Cariboo Gold Rush and quickly grew into a thriving settlement. At its height, it was nearly the size of San Francisco. Towns like Barkerville popped up all over the B.C. interior, filled with people from around the world, all searching for gold, for wealth, for a better life for themselves and their families.

But when the gold ran out, so did the people. The towns were abandoned, and nature slowly reclaimed them. Barkerville was preserved as a tourist site, but others, like Fisherville, have all but disappeared—overgrown with vegetation, their buildings slowly decaying, their bustling streets now silent paths in the forest.

These ghost towns, I think, offer a striking parallel to today’s Gospel.

Jesus tells a parable about a man who stores up wealth, building bigger barns to secure his future, only to die suddenly, leaving it all behind. His mistake wasn’t in working hard or having possessions—but in making material wealth his ultimate focus. He was “not rich toward God.”

That phrase—rich toward God—challenges us to reflect on what we’re building with our lives. What kind of treasure are we storing up?

The people who once lived in these gold rush towns invested everything in the pursuit of wealth. And from a worldly perspective, that made sense. But today, their towns are empty. Their fortunes—whatever they may have gained—didn’t last.

Of course, we do need to care for material needs. We have to work, provide for our families, and make wise choices. And in a city like Vancouver—beautiful but famously expensive—this is more pressing than ever. Many families are stretched thin, struggling to keep up with housing costs, inflation, and everyday expenses. Jesus is not ignoring this. He knows our burdens. He lived in poverty Himself.

But what He does ask us to do is to reassess our priorities. In the midst of all our striving, are we also building up what lasts?

Recently, we got an unexpected “examination of conscience” of sorts. You may have heard about the large earthquake off the coast of Russia and the resulting tsunami warnings issued across the Pacific—including here on the West Coast. Thankfully, nothing came of it, but it did get me thinking: if I were in a tsunami zone and received such a warning, what would I focus on? What would I try to take with me? Which people would I try to protect? What possessions—if any—would I think worth saving?

It was a sobering question. Because in a moment of urgency, only the most important things rise to the surface. And I realized that many of the things I worry about or work hard for are not the things I’d cling to in a moment of crisis. I suspect the same might be true for many of us.

So perhaps a spiritual question we can ask is this: If we had only a few hours to prepare, what would we choose to save? What—or who—would matter most?

That’s the kind of clarity Jesus wants us to have—not only in a moment of crisis, but every day. Are we focusing our lives on what truly lasts? Are we building up eternal treasures—like love, service, generosity, mercy, and faith?

Yes, we must be prudent and responsible with our material needs. But we must also make space to invest in what is eternal: in our relationship with God, in loving our neighbour, in caring for others, and in giving of ourselves. These are the treasures that last.

I’ll leave you with a phrase that captures the heart of this Gospel message:
“In the end, the only things we can take with us to heaven are the things we have given away.”

Let us pray, then, that we may be rich not just in things, but rich in the sight of God.

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.