Sunday Sermon - 8 February
Before anyone decides that I’ve lost it and is ready to up and leave or quietly wonders if this is what happens when clergy spend too much time alone during the week, Yes. I am wearing a wig.
And no, this is not a cry for help. This is not me having a midlife crisis and trying on a new look because I just turned 60. I’m wearing this wig today in honour of Catherine O’Hara. Because if you’re going to honour Catherine O’Hara, you don’t do it quietly. And you certainly don’t do it as a bald man, without hair.
If you’ve ever watched her series Schitt’s Creek (and that is not a swear by the way, it is a name of a town and the name of the series), you know that Moira Rose’s wigs were not just a costume choice, they were practically a character of their own. Each wig, individually named and with their own personalities, marked a moment of transition, survival, reinvention. When everything else was stripped away—wealth, status, certainty—Moira changed her hair and carried on.
Those wigs were never about vanity. They were about resilience, bout, and discovering who you are when the ground shifts beneath you. That, it turns out, is a pretty good place to start our message with today’s readings because Isaiah, Paul, and Jesus are all speaking to people whose familiar worlds have been shaken and who are being reminded that faith is not about preserving appearances, but about serving something greater than ourselves.
So yes, I’m wearing a wig today. Not to draw attention to myself but quite the opposite - to point us toward someone who spent her life helping others laugh, helping stories shine, and reminding us that sometimes the holiest thing you can do is not take yourself quite so seriously.
I love to laugh, I really do. I believe a good sense of humour is one of the most important, and most underrated, gifts God gives us. The ability to laugh, especially in difficult times, and even more importantly, the ability to laugh at ourselves, is a holy thing. It keeps us human. It keeps us humble. Sometimes, it keeps us sane.
Growing up, comedy was always a part of my life. My parents loved watching comedies. I grew up with Milton Berle, Carol Burnett, Flip Wilson, and Tim Conway. Tim Conway always got me. He could make me laugh just by watching him shuffle into a room. He’s one of Janice’s favourite’s. Steve Martin, that “wild and crazy guy!”, is one of mine. Everything Monty Python cracks me up though I have to admit, Mike Dry reigns supreme in this parish when it comes to remembering their jokes and sketches verbatim.
And of course, Saturday Night Live. I still love it though now that I’m an old priest, I can’t stay up that late on a Saturday night. But before SNL, for many of us, there was Second City Television—SCTV.
I tell you all of this because Catherine O’Hara, a Canadian comedic icon died rather suddenly last Friday, at the age of 71. Like some of you, I grew up with her. Alongside Eugene Levy, Martin Short, Andrea Martin, and of course the late, great John Candy. Her passing touched me in a place I didn’t expect. I wasn’t prepared for how sad I felt. I didn’t know her, of course, but I knew her laughter, her characters (my favourite being Lola Hetherington) and the gift of laughter she gave to me. Somehow, that mattered.
As I sat with that sadness and then turned to today’s readings, I realized something surprising. These texts—Isaiah, Paul, and Matthew—resonated deeply with what I most admired about Catherine O’Hara.
So today’s sermon is a bit of a tribute but more than that, it’s a reflection on how her life; her humour, and her wisdom help us understand something essential about the Gospel and about our purpose as God’s Church.
I think she’d be okay with that. After all, she once said:
“I’m pretty much a good Catholic girl at heart, and I believe in family. I also have a basic belief that God takes care of me. I believe in prayer, even though I’m not that religious. I just have that foundation from my family. I mean, when you think that you’re just a human being and one of God’s creatures, you can’t take anything that seriously.”
That right there is theology. Good theology.
One of the most striking things about Catherine O’Hara’s career is this: She was almost always a supporting actor, she was rarely the lead and almost never played the hero of the story. Yet, remove her from Home Alone, Best in Show, Beetlejuice, Schitt’s Creek— or any of her many pieces of work – and the whole thing collapses.
She understood her role was not to dominate the story, but to serve it. Her gift was never about drawing attention to herself. It was about helping others shine. And even more importantly, about giving the audience something precious: the gift of laughter.
Laughter that heals, connects and reminds us we’re not alone.
Her vocation as a comedian was profoundly extrinsic. It existed for others. It served a purpose beyond herself—human flourishing, joy, relief, community.
And that, I would suggest, is exactly what today’s readings are pointing us toward.
Isaiah’s words are absolutely relentless this morning. The people are fasting. They’re praying. They’re worshipping. They’re doing all the religious things and working hard to be ‘good for God.’ God says, through the prophet, “That’s not the fast I’m interested in.” You’re doing it, you’re being it, wrong.
The fast God chooses looks like this:
feeding the hungry
housing the homeless
clothing the naked
loosening the bonds of injustice
Only then, when we fast in these humble acts of service, does God say: “Then your light shall break forth like the dawn.”
Light doesn’t come from looking holy. Light comes from giving yourself away.
Paul, writing to the Corinthians, makes a similar move. He refuses to impress or perform. He refuses to play the role of the star. “I came to you,” he says, “not with lofty words or wisdom. I decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ, and him crucified.” In other words, Paul chooses the supporting role.
The Gospel isn’t about the Church being clever or powerful. It’s about serving something infinitely larger than ourselves—the reconciling love of God revealed in Christ.
Jesus, in Matthew’s Gospel, puts it as plainly as possible: “You are the salt of the earth.” “You are the light of the world.”
Salt doesn’t exist for itself. Light doesn’t exist to admire its own brightness. Salt disappears into the flavour of the meal. Light points away from itself so we can see through the darkness. Salt and Light are supporting roles that enhance the beauty of our lives.
The Church, like a good supporting actor, exists not to be the point of the story but to point to the story and to make it heard and living. Catherine O’Hara understood the role of a good supporting actor. Perhaps the most telling quote of her life came not about acting, or comedy, or fame. In 2024, TMZ asked her, “When all is said and done, which role would you most like to be remembered for?” Her answer was beautifully simple: “Mother of my children.” Not star, legend or icon but caring mother for her children - a supporting role. Somehow, that makes her greatness even more clear.
That is the vocation of the Church. Like a good mother, a good parent. Not to exist for our own survival, not to perform for ourselves, not to protect our comfort or our traditions at all costs but to support the work God is already doing in the world. To tell, to serve the story of grace. To point always to Christ.
To offer the gifts we’ve been given—faith, hope, love, compassion, justice, mercy—for the sake of others.
To be salt. To be light. To be, if you will, a supporting actor in God’s great and holy comedy, where broken people are slowly and lovingly redeemed.
I think Catherine O’Hara would appreciate that comparison. After all, anyone who could wear that many wigs on Schitt’s Creek and use them not to hide, but to effectively reveal our shared humanity, understood grace very well. Maybe that’s why I found myself drawn back into Catherine O’Hara’s work these past few years.
You see, Schitt’s Creek was filmed in Uxbridge—not far from where I grew up, and in the same town where my parents were living while it was being filmed. There was something oddly grounding about that. Something familiar. It brings me to a line spoken by O’Hara’s character, Moira Rose, that resonates deeply with me today, as I continue to find my own way as a priest here in our little village of Lakefield.
Moira says, “Our lives are like little bébé crows, carried upon a curious wind. And all we can wish, for our families, for those we love, is that that wind will eventually place us on solid ground. And I believe it’s done just that for my family here. In this little town. In the middle of nowhere.”
That, friends, is Gospel truth wrapped in a wig. We are carried. We are placed. The Church, at its best, helps others land gently on solid ground, in love, in hope, in joy.
May we, like Catherine O’Hara, know when to step back so others can shine. May we give ourselves away for the sake of the world and may we never forget that sometimes, the most faithful thing the Church can do is to help the world laugh again.
Amen.