The Church That Rose Again

Feast of Dedication of St. John Lateran

The Basilica of St. John Lateran, the Pope’s cathedral and the “mother of all churches,” reminds us that the heart of the Church is not stone but Christ Himself. Its long history of fires, earthquakes, and rebuilding mirrors our own call to rise from hardship through faith. As the first church dedicated to Christ the Saviour, it teaches that we, the baptized, are now His living temple, bringing His grace into the world.

Listen to Homily Here

 If I were to ask you the following question, how would you respond: What is the most important church building in our Catholic Church around the world?

Most of us, and I’d probably do the same, would answer, “St. Peter’s Basilica.” That’s what we see on the news; that’s where the Pope lives, gives his addresses, and where popes are elected. St. Peter’s is indeed ancient and deeply significant.

However, the church we celebrate today has a very strong case for being the most important church for Catholics worldwide — the Basilica of St. John Lateran. St. John Lateran is actually the cathedral of the Pope. Every bishop throughout the world has a cathedral church. In the Archdiocese of Vancouver, for example, the cathedral is Holy Rosary Cathedral downtown. When we celebrate its dedication, it’s a feast for the whole diocese, because in every cathedral you find a cathedra — Latin for “chair.” It symbolizes the bishop’s teaching authority and his role of pastoral leadership.

Now, the Pope is both Bishop of Rome and the one who, in a special way, shepherds the universal Church. His cathedra, his chair, is not in St. Peter’s Basilica, but in St. John Lateran. This means St. John Lateran is the cathedral of the Bishop of Rome — the Pope — and therefore has a unique place in the entire world. Across the globe today, Catholics celebrate this feast: the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica, the cathedral of the Pope, the visible sign of his ministry to the universal Church.

Over the great façade of St. John Lateran, just a couple of kilometres from St. Peter’s, is an inscription in Latin that reads in English:

“The mother and head of all the churches of the city and of the world.”

And so, St. John Lateran Basilica — whose dedication we celebrate today — is the Mother Church of the entire Catholic world.

This church building itself tells a story that mirrors our own story as the Church, the Body of Christ. Its history is one of transformation, suffering, and rebirth — much like the life of faith itself.

The name Lateran comes not from a saint but from a Roman family — the Laterani — who once owned the land. They were wealthy, pagan nobles who had a palace there during Nero’s reign in the first century. Eventually, they fell out of favour with Nero, who confiscated their property. For several centuries, it remained imperial land until Emperor Constantine, after his conversion to Christianity, gave it to the Church in 324 A.D.

What had been a pagan palace — a place for the powerful few — was transformed into one of the first public Christian churches in the world, open to all for prayer and worship. The Gospel always does this: it transforms what once served self-interest into a space that serves grace and communion.

Over time, the basilica endured immense trials. In 455, it was sacked by the Vandals and rebuilt. In 896, a massive earthquake nearly destroyed it, and again it was rebuilt. In the 14th century, devastating fires left it in ruins. During that time, the popes even moved their residence to Avignon, France. Yet, each time the basilica was rebuilt — most beautifully in the 17th century in the Baroque style we see today.

The Lateran stands as a witness to resurrection: though it has fallen many times, it has never ceased to rise again. Like the basilica, the Church — and each of us as members of it — experiences trials, storms, and moments of ruin. Yet, with Christ’s help, we rise renewed.

Even its name teaches us something about who we are. The basilica was originally dedicated not to St. John, but to Christ the Saviour — Christo Salvatori. It was the first church in history dedicated solely to Jesus Christ Himself, reminding us that Christ is the true foundation and centre of the Church.

Later, the name St. John was added — first referring to St. John the Baptist because of the ancient baptistery beside the church, and later also associated with St. John the Evangelist. The baptistery, one of the oldest in the Christian world, recalls the heart of our Christian identity: through baptism, we become the living temple of God.

As St. Paul says in today’s second reading, “You are God’s building… you are God’s temple.” Just as Jesus, in the Gospel, fulfills and replaces the temple of stone, so now He dwells within His people. Through baptism, we continue His mission of bringing grace, healing, and peace into the world.

And so, this great feast is not only about a magnificent church in Rome. It is about us — the living Church. The Lateran Basilica teaches us that Christ is the Saviour at the centre, and we, the baptized, are His dwelling place.

As we celebrate the Feast of the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica, let us pray in a special way for Pope Francis, whose cathedral this basilica is. May he continue to guide the Church in unity around Christ our Saviour. And may we, the baptized, truly become the temple of God — bringing the life-giving waters of grace to the world around us.

The City of the Dead and the Sleep of the Living

 All Souls Day

Every culture has its own way of honouring the dead, but Christians see death not as an ending, but as rest—our cemeteries are “sleeping places,” not “cities of the dead.” In Jesus, life conquers death; the one who raised the widow’s son will awaken all who rest in him. All Souls Day reminds us that our love and communion with those who have died endures, because in Christ, death is only temporary.

Listen to homily here

I remember that when I was in high school, I had the opportunity to visit Rome. A highlight of that trip was visiting St. Peter’s Basilica. Of course, the basilica itself was incredible, but what made the experience truly special was visiting the excavations beneath it. It’s an archaeological site that must be booked well in advance—a climate-controlled maze of ancient tombs beneath the great church.

The site of St. Peter’s in Rome was once a Roman burial ground. That’s why St. Peter was buried there. As we toured the necropolis—the “city of the dead”—I remember one detail vividly. The guide showed us a little courtyard inside one of the tombs that had a small hole in the ground. He explained that it was used during ceremonies in which people shared meals with their deceased loved ones, pouring drink offerings through the hole into the earth below. Even as a teenager, that image stuck with me.

Every culture has its own ways of honoring the dead, and these customs reveal what people believe about what happens after death. The very word necropolis—“city of the dead”—captures the Roman view that death was permanent. The dead had their own city outside the limits of the living.

Christians, however, have a different word for such places: cemetery. The word comes from the Greek koimētērion, meaning “a sleeping place.” A cemetery is not a city of the dead—it’s a dormitory for those who sleep in Christ. This word expresses our belief that death is not permanent. Those who have died are at rest, awaiting the day when God will awaken them to new life. Even the familiar inscription “R.I.P.”—Rest in Peace—reflects this same hope.

In today’s Gospel, we see that hope embodied in Jesus himself. He encounters a grieving mother whose only son has died. The whole town mourns with her. We can all relate to that scene—the sorrow, the emptiness, the questions. But Jesus steps into that moment of loss and brings life. He raises the young man from the dead, showing that he has power even over death.

In the Book of Revelation, we hear Jesus described as “the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end.” We see those same Greek letters on our Easter candle. They remind us that because of Christ’s resurrection, the story doesn’t end with death. As we pray in the Preface for the Dead: “For your faithful, Lord, life is changed, not ended.” Death is not the end of the story; it’s a passage—a path that every one of us must take.

J.R.R. Tolkien, a devout Catholic, expressed this beautifully in The Lord of the Rings. In one scene, the hobbit Pippin is terrified in the midst of battle, thinking the end has come. But Gandalf, a Christ-like figure, says to him, “No, the journey doesn’t end here. Death is just another path—one that we all must take.”

As Christians, we believe that our loved ones who have died are not gone. They are with God. The Book of Wisdom tells us, “The souls of the just are in the hands of God.” When we remain close to God, we remain close to them too. The bonds of love, friendship, and faith that we shared in this life continue beyond death.

That’s why we keep traditions like visiting cemeteries, keeping photos of loved ones, or writing their names in our Book of Remembrance here at St. Peter’s. These are ways of maintaining that living connection with them. This weekend, we also gather at St. Peter’s Cemetery for a special blessing and prayers for the departed. These customs are not just about memory—they are about hope.

Today, as we celebrate All Souls Day, we do so as people of hope. We affirm that death is not the end—it is temporary. Because of Christ, life triumphs. As we pray together:

Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

The Grace of Being Brought Low

 30 Sunday of Ordinary Time, year C

Sometimes life brings us down—through illness, aging, or hardship—and we feel powerless. Yet it’s often in those moments of helplessness that we finally recognize our need for God’s mercy, opening the door for grace to enter. Like the humble tax collector, when we pray, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner,” we discover that dependence on God is not weakness but the path to true strength.

Listen to homily here:

As I mentioned at the start of Mass, I’m talking a bit funny today because I went to the dentist the other day. And for most of us, going to the dentist isn’t exactly a highlight of the week. I’ll admit, I don’t like it one bit. The main reason is because I’m a big baby when it comes to needles—I see one, and I start to panic. But there’s another reason too: when you’re in that dentist’s chair, you feel helpless. You can’t talk, you can’t move, and you’re totally dependent on someone else.

Now, going to the dentist is a minor example, but it points to a much deeper experience many people face. There are times in life when we feel powerless—when we’ve been brought low and can’t really do anything to change our situation. Think of someone battling a long-term illness, unable to control what’s ahead. Or the elderly members of our community who are losing abilities they once took for granted. Or newcomers and immigrants trying to start over in a strange country, filled with uncertainty. All of us, at some point, experience moments like these—moments that bring us low.

Although God doesn’t want us to suffer, perhaps there’s a grace hidden in these experiences. Today’s Gospel reveals something of that grace. Jesus tells us that in order to receive God’s help, we must first recognize that we need it. God can’t give us something we don’t believe we need.

In the parable, Jesus contrasts two people: a Pharisee and a tax collector. It’s a startling image. The Pharisees were known for their piety and religious devotion; they were the “good” people of their time. The tax collectors, on the other hand, were despised. They worked for the Roman Empire and often cheated people out of money. Yet Jesus flips the script. The Pharisee, who thought he had it all together, prayed as if he didn’t need God. And because of that, he went home unchanged. The tax collector, however, was humble. He knew his faults. He recognized his dependence on God, and he cried out, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” And Jesus says that he went home justified.

The message is clear: humility opens the door to grace. When we acknowledge our need, God can enter our lives.

I’ve heard many people tell their faith stories, and a common thread runs through them. They’ll say, “I didn’t really pray, I didn’t really think about God—until I hit rock bottom.” When they reached that point of helplessness, when they could no longer rely on themselves, that’s when they turned to God. That’s when grace began to work.

The word humility actually comes from the Latin humus—not hummus like the food, but humus, meaning “earth” or “ground.” To be humble means to be grounded—to be real about who we are. It means being honest about our gifts and talents, yes, but also about our weaknesses and our dependence on God and others.

So when we find ourselves brought low—when we feel powerless or uncertain—perhaps those moments are not just burdens but opportunities. Opportunities to recognize our need for God, to remember that we are not self-sufficient. And it’s precisely then that God can draw near to us.

Let us, then, imitate the tax collector from today’s Gospel. Let’s be honest with God about our need, and pray simply, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” Those words of humility are the key that unlocks the door to God’s mercy. For when we finally admit that we need Him, that’s when God can truly help us.