CALLED TO BE FAITHFUL

July 9, 2025 Wednesday within the 14th week in Ordinary Time: Year C Mathew 10:1-7 There is something deeply personal in the way Jesus calls each of the twelve by name. He doesn’t summon a crowd or choose the most influential. He chooses fishermen, tax collectors, ordinary men — broken, flawed, and uncertain. When I reflect on my own vocation, I can’t help but wonder why He chose me too. Like the apostles, I had my fears, my doubts, my hidden wounds. And yet, Jesus did not call me because I was ready. He called me so that I would become ready — in His time, by His grace. Jesus not only calls them; He sends them. He entrusts them with the sacred mission to heal, to cast out demons, to proclaim the nearness of God’s Kingdom. What a terrifying and beautiful task — to become vessels of healing in a hurting world. I think of the times I’ve been sent to hospital beds, confessionals, or lonely parishioners. Often, I didn’t feel powerful. I felt small, exhausted, unsure of what to say. But somehow, through that weakness, grace moved. Healing happened. Not because of me, but because He was with me. This Gospel reminds me that I am not called to be impressive, but faithful. I am not called to succeed by the world’s standards, but to serve with Christ’s heart. Being sent by Jesus is not about status — it’s about surrender. The Kingdom of God is still near, still breaking into this world through the hands and hearts of those willing to go. And so, like the apostles, I rise again today with my name on His lips and His mission in my heart — uncertain, unworthy, but undeniably chosen. Blessings Fr. Jhack

WHEN COMPASSION BECOMES A MISSION

July 8, 2025 Tuesday within the 14th week in Ordinary Time Year C Matthew 9:32–38 In this powerful passage, we witness the heart of Jesus revealed again and again—not just as a healer of bodies but as a restorer of souls. When they brought the paralyzed man to Him, Jesus first forgave his sins before healing his legs. This moment reminds us of the deepest healing humanity needs—not physical strength, but inner freedom. The priority of mercy over miracle in Jesus’ action speaks volumes. In a world obsessed with instant cures, Jesus gives us lasting grace. And through this grace, we too are invited to rise, walk, and carry our mats—not to return to comfort, but to move forward in faith. As the chapter unfolds, we see Jesus healing the blind, casting out demons, restoring dignity to the afflicted—and still, His gaze lifts to the crowd, and He is “moved with compassion.” This phrase is not casual—it’s the very core of His mission. His heart is stirred by the sight of people who are “harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.” He doesn’t merely observe their pain—He feels it. And from this sacred compassion, He calls for laborers. The mission of the Church is born not in strategy, but in shared suffering. It is love that sends, love that preaches, love that heals. For us priests, ministers, and faithful alike, Matthew 9 ends with a burning call: “The harvest is abundant, but the laborers are few.” Jesus is not simply stating a fact—He is revealing a heartbreak and extending an invitation. We are asked not just to admire His compassion, but to live it. To be laborers in the fields of brokenness, to be bringers of healing, and above all, to be channels of mercy. Our ministry is not about results, but about presence—being with the wounded and carrying them to Christ. In every act of mercy, we join Jesus in His mission, and in doing so, we become His hands and heart in a world that is still harassed, helpless, and in need of a Shepherd. Blessings Fr. Jhack

YOUR FAITH HAS MADE YOU WELL

July 7, 2025 Monday within the 14th week in Ordinary Time Year C Matthew 9:18–26 There are moments in life when everything feels like it’s falling apart—when sickness lingers, when silence fills the house after a loved one has gone, when prayers feel unanswered. In today’s Gospel, I see not just stories, but real people holding onto fragile hope. A father, desperate for his daughter’s life, kneels before Jesus with trembling faith. A woman, weary from twelve years of bleeding, risks humiliation just to touch His cloak. And in both, I see myself—reaching for God not with perfect faith, but with a heart full of longing and tears. What moves me most is how Jesus responds. He does not dismiss their pain, nor does He rush past their desperation. Instead, He enters into their brokenness with tenderness. He walks into the house of mourning. He turns to the woman hidden in the crowd. His power is not distant—it is personal. Theologically, this passage reminds me that Jesus is not merely the Lord of miracles; He is Emmanuel, God-with-us. He restores life not only through divine command but through His presence that dignifies our pain and restores our worth. This Gospel fills me with emotion because it assures me that my suffering is seen. When I feel unworthy, when I kneel with my quiet prayers, when all I can do is reach out in hope—He sees me. He turns, and He speaks. “Take heart… your faith has made you well.” In a world that often leaves us feeling invisible and unheard, this passage whispers a deeper truth: even when all we have is a thread of hope, that’s enough for Jesus to work wonders. And that is more than comforting—it is life-giving. Blessings Fr. Jhack

NEW WINESKIN

July 5, 2025 Saturday within the 13th week in Ordinary Time Year C Matthew 9:14–17 There was a time in my journey when I tried so hard to fit into what others expected of a “holy person.” I fasted, I followed the rules, I tried to be enough. But deep inside, I was tired—spiritually tired. I began to ask the same question John’s disciples asked: “Why do we have to do all these things?” And then I encountered Jesus in a deeper way—not in the rigidity of my routines, but in the freedom of His presence. Like new wine, His love poured into parts of me that had long dried up. I realized He wasn’t asking for performance. He was asking for my heart. Jesus’ words about new wine and new wineskins hit me personally. I was still trying to pour His grace into the old wineskin of guilt, pressure, and perfectionism. No wonder I kept bursting. But Jesus gently reminded me: I am not the same as I once was. His love had changed me. He wanted to give me something new, but I had to be willing to let go of the old—old wounds, old fears, old ways of measuring my worth. That was hard. But slowly, I began to surrender. And the more I let go, the more joy I found. Now I understand—Jesus is not just the Bridegroom of the Church, He is the Bridegroom of my soul. His presence is not a burden to carry but a celebration to embrace. Life with Him isn’t meant to be dry or rigid—it’s meant to overflow with grace, with mercy, with laughter even in tears. He is constantly making things new in me. And though I am still learning, still growing, I now welcome each day with a heart stretched open like a new wineskin, ready to be filled again by the One who turns the ordinary into joy. Blessings Fr. Jhack

FOLLOW ME

July 4, 2025 Friday within the 13th week in Ordinary Time Year C Matthew 9:9–13 There are days I still wonder why God called me. I wasn’t the most prayerful, the most brilliant, or the most confident. Like Matthew, I was simply “there”—in my own little corner of life, doing what I knew, not even thinking I was worthy of something greater. But Jesus came anyway. Not with judgment, but with invitation. Not with a list of requirements, but with a gaze that saw deeper. And when I first heard that gentle whisper in my heart—“Jhack, follow me”—I felt like Matthew must have felt: surprised, undeserving, and yet, suddenly full of hope. It was not a call to perfection. It was a call to begin. Matthew’s story comforts me deeply because it reminds me that God doesn’t wait for us to clean up our lives before He calls us. He meets us in the middle of our mess, and He chooses us anyway. Matthew was a tax collector, a man probably used to dirty money and broken trust. And yet, those same hands once used to collect bribes became the hands God used to write the Gospel of Matthew. That’s how God works—He doesn’t erase our past; He transforms it. I think of the parts of my life I used to hide in shame—my fears, my failures, even my doubts—and now I see how God has slowly been using those very things to shape my ministry. It is never about being good enough. It is about saying yes. Discipleship, I’ve learned, is deeply personal. When Jesus says, “Follow me,” He is not giving an order—He is offering intimacy. He is inviting us not just to work for Him, but to walk with Him. Like Matthew, I left behind things when I answered that call—comfort, certainty, and even parts of who I thought I was. But in return, God gave me a mission far greater than I could have imagined. My limitations have become places of grace. My wounds have become doors of healing. And every day I wake up, I remember: I was not called because I was perfect. I was called because I was loved. Blessings Fr. Jhack

FEAST OF ST. THOMAS, Apostle

July 3, 2025 Feast of St. Thomas Apostle John 20:24–29 There are days in my priesthood when I find myself standing exactly where St. Thomas once stood—not in defiance, but in deep longing. Longing for clarity. Longing for proof that God has not forgotten us in the silence. I remember one particular night after comforting a grieving family at the bedside of a dying loved one, I sat in my chapel alone. I had just finished praying the rosary, but my heart was heavy. I whispered into the silence, “Lord, where are You?” And in that moment, I realized—I was not far from Thomas. Thomas was not a doubter in the shallow sense. He was a man who loved deeply and expected honestly. He had given everything to follow Jesus, and when He saw the others rejoice at the Resurrection, he wasn’t stubborn—he was broken. He needed to touch the wounds because he himself was wounded. I understand that now more than ever. In my own moments of grief—especially when I lost my mother to cancer—I longed not just for theological answers but for a real encounter, something tangible. Like Thomas, I wanted to reach out and say, “Let me touch You, Lord, before I fall apart.” But what amazes me, and gives me comfort to this day, is that Jesus did not scold Thomas. He came to him—gently, personally, intimately. “Put your finger here,” He said. Not to shame him, but to embrace his humanity. That moment changed everything. And every time I stand before the altar, every time I hold the broken host and whisper, “My Lord and my God,” I know I am standing with Thomas again—wounded, yes, but found. I pray that like him, I may always have the courage to be honest in my faith, and the humility to recognize Jesus when He comes, even through the veil of my doubts. Blessings Fr. Jhack

JESUS AND THE PIGS

July 2, 2025 Wednesday within the 13th week in Ordinary Time Year C Matthew 8:28–34 There is something hauntingly beautiful about this passage. Jesus enters the region of the Gadarenes—a place avoided, feared, even cursed. And there, He is met not with welcome, but with violence: two men possessed, outcast, and tormented by demons. Their pain was so fierce that no one dared pass by them. But Jesus did. He crosses into the margins—not just geographically, but spiritually—stepping into the very place where human suffering and evil are most raw and terrifying. It moves me deeply that the Son of God does not flinch. He sees them, not just the demons. And in His seeing, He restores. The demons recognize Him instantly and tremble: “What do you want with us, Son of God?” That question cuts into the heart. Because many of us—wounded, ashamed, trapped in our own silent battles—have whispered that same question: Jesus, what do You want with someone like me? And yet, He answers not with condemnation, but with liberation. He casts the demons out, sending them into the pigs. It’s a powerful act of deliverance, but what pierces my heart is what follows. The townspeople, instead of rejoicing, beg Jesus to leave. Sometimes the presence of healing disturbs the comfort of what is familiar—even if it’s broken. They preferred silence over transformation, pigs over people, safety over salvation. This Gospel wounds me and heals me at the same time. It reminds me that Christ will go where no one else dares—into the graves of our past, into the caves of our fears, into the places people have written off. And when He does, demons flee, chains break, and the possessed become whole. But it also challenges me: Will I welcome Him when He disturbs my comfort? Will I choose people over possessions, freedom over fear, healing over hiding? Because Jesus still steps into Gadarenes today—and sometimes, that dark and dangerous place is our very own heart. And even there, He comes not to destroy… but to save. Blessings Fr. Jhack

STORM

July 1, 2025 Canada Day Tuesday within the 13th week in Ordinary Time Year C Matthew 8:23–27 There was a time in my life when I felt like I was doing everything right. I was following Jesus, staying faithful to prayer, serving where I was called—and yet, suddenly, I found myself in the middle of a storm. It came without warning: fear, confusion, doubts I never expected, and silence from heaven that felt deafening. Today’s Gospel scene felt all too real. I was in the boat. I was drowning. And Jesus felt asleep. That’s when I learned this hard truth: the storm is part of the journey. Even when you walk with Jesus, storms still come. But they come with a purpose—to reveal the depth of your faith, the strength of your trust, and the reality of your relationship with God. I used to think faith meant fighting harder, praying louder, or fixing everything fast. But then I looked at Jesus in the boat—asleep. While the disciples were panicking, He was resting. It wasn’t that He didn’t care—it was that He was at peace. That image struck me deeply. I realized I didn’t need to match the chaos around me. I needed to sleep like Jesus—to rest in God, even when everything around me screamed otherwise. Faith, I’ve learned, sometimes looks like surrender. It means saying, “Lord, I don’t understand, but I trust You’re still in control.” And that’s when peace came—not because the storm disappeared immediately, but because I knew I was safe. Safe not from pain, but from despair. Safe not from loss, but from hopelessness. Jesus stood up in the boat then, and He still stands up in our lives now. He speaks calm into our chaos. I look back at that storm now not with fear, but with gratitude. It taught me to respond with trust, not terror. Because when you trust in the Lord—not in the absence of storms, but in the presence of the Savior—you are truly, deeply, and eternally safe. NB: On this Canada Day, I thank God for the gift of this country that welcomed me, shaped me, and gave me new ground to serve. May we continue to grow as a nation rooted in peace, compassion, and unity. Let us not only celebrate our freedoms—but use them to lift others up. God bless Canada, and may we always walk humbly with Jesus. Blessings Fr. Jhack

The cost of following Jesus

June 30, 2025 Monday within the 13th week in Ordinary Time Year C Matthew 8:18–22 There is something quietly piercing about this Gospel. Jesus doesn’t turn people away—but He doesn’t sugarcoat the journey either. When a scribe enthusiastically says, “Teacher, I will follow you wherever You go,” Jesus responds not with praise, but with sobering honesty: “Foxes have dens and birds have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay His head.” It’s as if He’s asking, “Are you ready to follow Me, even if it costs you everything familiar?” This passage confronts us with the raw truth that discipleship is not about comfort—it’s about surrender. I’ve felt that surrender. Leaving behind people I loved, places I was rooted in, and dreams I once held close. There were moments I wanted to say, “Lord, let me just take care of this first.” But Jesus’ words echo clearly: “Follow Me, and let the dead bury their dead.” Not because He lacks compassion, but because He knows our hearts can delay with good excuses that quietly become chains. To follow Jesus means to walk away from safety into sacred uncertainty. It means choosing Him even when it hurts, even when it’s lonely, even when no one claps. But I’ve also found this to be true—when we let go of everything else, we fall into the arms of the One who gave up everything for us. And that’s when we discover: it’s not about what we give up… it’s about who we gain. Blessings Fr. Jhack

When Grace Found Them… and Me!

A Personal Reflection on the Solemnity of Saints Peter and Paul Matthew 16:13-19 Every year on this solemn feast of Saints Peter and Paul, I find myself pausing—not just in admiration, but in awe. These were not men born into sainthood. Peter denied Jesus when He needed him most. Paul hunted down the very followers of Christ with rage in his heart. And yet today, the Church doesn’t just remember them—we celebrate them as pillars of the faith. How did they get there? Not by perfection, but by surrender. Not because they were flawless, but because they let grace do the impossible in them. I look at my own life and see echoes of their stories. I’ve had my own moments of denial—not always with words, but in silence, in hesitation, in fear. And I’ve had my own moments of pride and blindness, where I was so sure of my way, I didn’t notice God quietly offering a better one. But like Peter and Paul, grace found me. Not when I had it all together, but when I was most lost. It didn’t shame me—it called me by name. It didn’t erase my past—it transformed it. That’s the power of God’s mercy: it makes saints out of sinners, preachers out of persecutors, and hope out of heartbreak. Peter and Paul remind me that heaven isn’t reserved for the blameless—it’s promised to the redeemed. So I keep walking, stumbling sometimes, but always getting up… because the same God who built His Church on shaky ground can build something sacred in me too. Blessings Fr. Jhack

Not worthy yet loved

June 28, 2025 Saturday within the 12th week in Orinary Time: Year C Matthew 8:5–17 In today’s gospel we encounter two moments of deep human need—a Roman centurion whose beloved servant is suffering terribly, and many others who come to Jesus with sickness and affliction. What stands out is not just the healing that takes place, but the heart that dares to ask. The centurion, a man of authority, approaches Jesus not with pride, but with profound humility: “Lord, I am not worthy to have you under my roof.” It is a line that has echoed for centuries in our Eucharistic prayers. Behind those words is the aching heart of someone who loves deeply—who is willing to set aside status, power, and reputation just to see someone he cares for be restored. And Jesus, moved not by rank but by faith, marvels. This Gospel reveals a love that crosses boundaries—cultural, religious, personal. Jesus heals not just because He can, but because His heart is always drawn to the suffering. He enters Peter’s house, sees his mother-in-law lying sick, and touches her hand. There’s no grand miracle here—just a quiet gesture of compassion that lifts her up and restores her strength. And then, like her, we are called to rise from our own healing and begin to serve. The grace we receive is not meant to end with us—it must overflow. Healing is not only about physical restoration; it is the reawakening of the soul, the stirring of gratitude, and the rebirth of purpose. This passage reminds us that no suffering is hidden from the gaze of Christ. Whether we are pleading like the centurion or lying helpless like Peter’s mother-in-law, Jesus comes close. He doesn’t just cure diseases; He carries our burdens, fulfills Isaiah’s prophecy, and enters into the wounds of humanity to bring light. This is our hope—that even in moments when we feel unworthy, broken, or far from help, He is willing to come under our roof. His presence heals. His word restores. And in every Mass where we whisper, “Lord, I am not worthy…” we are echoing the cry of the centurion—and trusting in a love that still heals today. Blessings Fr. Jhack