A Word from the Rector

Friends,

Many of us have been carrying the sorrow and shock of the violence that struck the Lapu Lapu Festival in Vancouver, on the evening of April 26—a celebration of life that became, so suddenly, a place of grief. As the news has unfolded, I’ve found myself thinking not only of those who were hurt, but of all the ties that connect us: the colleagues in ministry and life that we work alongside, the caregivers who help us raise our children and care for our elders, the nurses who have sat with us in hospital rooms, the doctors and friends who have shared in our own stories of hope and struggle.

The Filipino community isn’t distant from us. They are part of the fabric of our lives. They seek love, dignity, and belonging, just as we do.

There’s a heaviness in the air these days, isn’t there? It’s not just this one event—it’s the growing sense that the world is shifting, that violence and isolation are creeping closer to home, that the places we once trusted to be safe don’t feel quite the same. I feel that fear too. Maybe you do as well.

And yet the Gospel we heard at Eucharist today reminds us that fear isn’t the end of the story. In John’s Gospel, the disciples are locked away after violence has shattered their world. And Jesus doesn’t stand outside waiting for them to be ready. He comes right into their fear, right into their grief, carrying his own wounds, and breathes peace into the place they thought was beyond saving (John 20:19–31).

Not a shallow peace. Not a peace that pretends nothing has happened.

A peace that holds the wounds and says, even so, love is still here.

Today is also the Feast of Divine Mercy, a day especially dear to many in the Filipino Roman Catholic community. It reminds us that God's heart is not distant from our pain. God’s heart draws nearer, aching with those who ache, staying through the night with those who grieve.

So maybe part of our calling right now is just that:
To draw nearer to one another when the world pulls apart.
To stay, when fear would have us lock the doors.
To let mercy have the last word, not violence or despair.

I’ve written to the community of St. Mary the Virgin, South Hill—just blocks from where this tragedy unfolded—to assure them of our prayers and companionship on this road. As they find their own way toward healing, I’ll let you know if there are ways we can offer support.

But for today, I invite you to take a moment and join me:
To pray.
To reach out with kindness.
To notice who around you needs to be reminded they are not alone.

Because Christ still comes through locked doors.

And still breathes peace where we least expect it.

With love and hope,

Alex+