EASTER IV: Acts 2:14, 36-41; 1Pt 2:20b-25; Jn 10:1-10

The Jews tell a beautiful legend about why God chose Moses to lead His people. One day, while tending the flock of his father-in-law in the wilderness, a young lamb wandered away. Moses followed it until he found it at a ravine, drinking from a well. When he reached it, he gently said, “I did not know you ran away because you were thirsty. Now you must be tired.” He lifted the lamb onto his shoulders and carried it back to the flock. Then God said, “Because you have shown compassion in caring for a lamb that was not even your own, you shall lead My people, Israel.”

This simple story captures the heart of what it means to be a shepherd: attentiveness, compassion, and a willingness to seek out and carry the weak. It is this same image that Jesus uses in today’s Gospel when He declares, “I am the Good Shepherd.”

A striking modern example of this shepherding spirit was seen in the life of Pope St. John Paul II. The evangelist Billy Graham once remarked of him, “He lived like his Master, the Good Shepherd, and he died like his Master, the Good Shepherd.” In those words, we hear the essence of Christian leadership and discipleship: to reflect Christ, who gives Himself completely for His flock.

Today, the Fourth Sunday of Easter is known as Good Shepherd Sunday. It is also the World Day of Prayer for Vocations. The Church invites us to reflect on God’s call in our lives and to pray for those who are called to serve as priests, deacons, and religious. Vocations are not just personal decisions; they are gifts given for the good of the entire community. Every member of the Church shares responsibility in fostering and supporting these calls.

The image of the shepherd runs throughout Scripture. In Psalm 23, we proclaim with confidence, “The Lord is my shepherd; there is nothing I shall want.” God is portrayed as the One who provides, guides, protects, and restores. The prophets echo this image: Isaiah speaks of God gathering lambs in His arms, while Ezekiel foretells that the Lord Himself will search for the lost, bring back the strayed, bind up the injured, and strengthen the weak. Again and again, God reveals Himself as a shepherd who is personally involved in the care of His people.

In today’s second reading, St. Peter reminds us that Jesus, the innocent sufferer, is the model for all who endure hardship. He calls Jesus the shepherd and guardian of our souls. Through His suffering, we have been brought back into relationship with God. Like sheep who had gone astray, we have been gathered again by the One who knows us and loves us.

In the Gospel, Jesus presents Himself not only as the shepherd but also as the gate for the sheep. These two images are deeply connected. As the shepherd, He knows His sheep, calls them by name, and leads them to safety. As the gate, He is the only way into the fold—the one path to salvation. “Whoever enters through me will be saved,” He says. This means that true life, true security, and true freedom are found only in relationship with Him.

At the same time, Jesus warns us about false shepherds—thieves and robbers who come not to care for the sheep, but to exploit and scatter them. These false voices are not always obvious. They can be subtle, persuasive, and even appealing. They tell us, “Everyone is doing this—why shouldn’t you?” or “Times have changed; you need to move on.” These voices invite us to compromise our values and drift away from the truth.

But Jesus tells us something important: His sheep know His voice. This means that, as believers, we are called to develop a deep familiarity with Christ—through prayer, Scripture, and the life of the Church—so that we can recognize what comes from Him and what does not. When we listen to His voice, we are led toward life, peace, and fulfillment. When we follow other voices, we often find ourselves lost, confused, and spiritually empty.

The image of the shepherd is not meant only for Christ. In a real sense, each of us is called to be a shepherd in our own sphere of life. Parents shepherd their children. Teachers guide their students. Priests care for their parishioners. Doctors, nurses, leaders, and caregivers—all are entrusted with the well-being of others.

To be a good shepherd means more than simply fulfilling a role. It means loving those entrusted to us, being attentive to their needs, protecting them from harm, and guiding them toward what is good and true. It requires sacrifice, patience, and a genuine concern for others. For parents especially, this responsibility is profound. By their example, their prayer, and their teaching, they shape not only the lives of their children but also their faith.

Ultimately, today’s Gospel invites us to reflect on two questions. First, are we truly listening to the voice of the Good Shepherd? In a world filled with noise and distraction, this requires intentional effort. Second, are we reflecting the heart of the Good Shepherd in the way we care for others?

Jesus assures us that He came so that we might have life, and have it more abundantly. This abundant life is not found in following the crowd or chasing fleeting pleasures, but in walking closely with Him, trusting His guidance, and remaining within the safety of His fold.

Like the lamb carried by Moses, we too are often weak, wandering, and in need of care. Yet the Good Shepherd does not abandon us. He seeks us out, lifts us up, and brings us home.

 

 Easter III [A] Acts 2:14, 22–33; 1 Peter 1:17–21; Luke 24:13–35

Last Sunday, we stood with "Doubting Thomas" in the Upper Room, touching the wounds of the Risen Lord to find faith. Today, the liturgy moves us out of the room and onto the road. We join two disciples on the seven-mile journey from Jerusalem to Emmaus. They are not characterized by doubt, but by a profound, heavy confusion. They had hoped Jesus was the one to redeem Israel, but the Crucifixion seemed to signal the end of that hope.

As they walk, a stranger joins them. We know it is Jesus, but "their eyes were prevented from recognizing him." This is the starting point for so many of us: walking through life with a heavy heart, unable to see God even when He is walking right beside us.

The Liturgy of the Way

What follows on that dusty road is the very first "Mass" celebrated by the Risen Christ. It unfolds in two distinct movements that mirror our own liturgy today: the Liturgy of the Word and the Liturgy of the Eucharist.

First, Jesus becomes the preacher. He doesn’t offer empty platitudes or tell them to "just have faith." Instead, He opens the Scriptures. He starts with Moses and the prophets, explaining how the Messiah had to suffer to enter His glory. He provides the "Light of Truth" to their darkened minds.

Later, the disciples would reflect, "Were not our hearts burning within us while he spoke to us on the way?" This is the purpose of the Word of God at every Mass. When the Scriptures are proclaimed and the homily is shared, it is not merely a history lesson. It is meant to be a transformative encounter where the Holy Spirit sets our hearts ablaze, melting the ice of our confusion and disappointment.

Then comes the second movement. As they sit at the table, Jesus takes bread, blesses it, breaks it, and gives it to them. In this "breaking of the bread"—the earliest name for the Eucharist—their eyes are finally opened. They recognize Him. And just as they do, He vanishes from their physical sight. Why? Because He no longer needs to stand beside them; He is now within them. He has moved from being a fellow traveler to being the very Bread of Life that sustains them.

Our Own Emmaus Roads

The Emmaus story is a universal map of the human experience. We all have "Emmaus moments"—times when our personal "Jerusalem" has become a place of trauma, loss, or shattered dreams.

We see it in the parent who did everything right, yet watches their child struggle with addiction or rejection of the faith.

We see it in the spouse who remained faithful, only to face a messy and painful divorce.

We see it in the hardworking employee who is passed over for a promotion by someone who plays by different rules.

In these moments, we ask the "Why?" questions. Why did God allow this? Why is life so messy when I followed the rules? The Gospel doesn’t always provide a neat, logical answer to "Why," but it provides an answer to "Who." The Risen Lord meets us in the ordinary experiences of life and in the quiet, lonely places where we retreat when the world becomes too heavy. He assures us that even when we feel abandoned, He is the silent companion on our journey. We only know the name of one of these two disciples, Cleopas. Perhaps the evangelist leaves the other disciple nameless as a way of inviting each one of us into the story. We can each identify with that second disciple, giving him or her our own name. Thus, we can experience that the risen Jesus journeys with us to help us put together the fragments and pieces of our sometimes shattered lives.

 

The Two Tables: Word and Sacrament

Jesus remains with us through two primary channels: the Table of the Word and the Table of the Eucharist.

As the Second Vatican Council reminds us in Dei Verbum (21), the Church has always venerated the divine Scriptures just as she venerates the Body of the Lord. There is a unique advantage to the Word: while the Eucharist is the "Source and Summit" reserved for those in a state of grace and communion, the Word of God is a light accessible to everyone.

Whether you are a lifelong believer or a seeker full of questions, whether you are married, divorced, a saint, or a sinner—the Word of God is for you. It is the "ordinary route" to faith. It is the spark that starts the fire. This is why we are called to not just hear the Bible on Sundays, but to study it, pray with it, and memorize it. We must let the Word of God become the lens through which we view our daily struggles.

From Confusion to Commitment

The most beautiful part of the Emmaus story is the ending. These disciples, who were walking away from the community in Jerusalem out of fear and sadness, suddenly turn around. Despite the darkness of the night and the seven-mile trek they had just completed, they run back. They didn’t become profound theologians in an afternoon, but they had a good experience of the Lord in the breaking of the Word and the breaking of the bread. They didn’t have all the answers to the political or social problems of their day. But they had become committed Christians. Their encounter with the Risen Lord gave them a joy that surpassed their circumstances.

Conclusion: Trusting the Anchor

We may never discover all the answers we seek. Life will remain, in many ways, a mystery. But we can be at peace even in the face of unresolved issues because we have an anchor.

Our anchor is Sacred Scripture, and our joy is the Real Presence of the Lord in the Eucharist. If we stay united to Him in Word and Sacrament, we will not go wrong. We can trust that even when we cannot see Him, He is there. The "Peace which surpasses all understanding" is not the absence of trouble, but the presence of Christ.

Today, as we approach the breaking of the bread, let us pray: "Lord, stay with us, for it is nearly evening and the day is almost over." Set our hearts on fire with Your Word, and open our eyes to recognize You in our midst.

Amen

 Divine Mercy: Acts 2:42-47; 1 Pet 1:3-9; John 20:19-31

Today, we stand at the summit of the Octave of Easter. For eight days, the Church has lingered in the glow of the Resurrection, but today that light focuses into a single, piercing beam: Divine Mercy. The readings for this Sunday do more than recount a historical event; they reveal our profound, ongoing need for the mercy of God—a mercy revealed not through abstract philosophy, but through the suffering, death, and Resurrection of Jesus Christ.

The Source of the Devotion

Our modern celebration of this feast is inseparable from the mystical life of St. Faustina Kowalska. In the 1930s, amidst the gathering shadows of world conflict, Jesus appeared to this humble Polish nun with a message for the modern world. The image she described is now iconic: the Risen Lord with two rays—one red and one pale—shining from His Heart. He is pictured in the act of blessing, an eternal posture of invitation.

Pope St. John Paul II, whose own life was forged in the crucible of Nazi and Communist oppression, recognized that Divine Mercy was the only adequate response to the evils of the 20th century. By canonizing St. Faustina and establishing this feast in the year 2000, he reminded us that the Chaplet of Divine Mercy is not merely a private devotion. When we pray, “Eternal Father, I offer you the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity of your dearly beloved Son,” we are performing a priestly act. We are offering the Slain-Risen Lord to the Father, asking Him to be exactly who He has shown Himself to be: Mercy itself.

The Face and the Sacraments

We often equate mercy with mere sentiment—compassion or sympathy. But mercy has a face. It is the face of the Lord who gave up His life on the cross. From His pierced side, a spring of water and blood brings the whole of history to fruition.

This is the theology of the rays in the Divine Mercy image. The pale ray represents Baptism, the red ray represents the Eucharist. From the ultimate self-sacrifice of Jesus springs the source of a new community. However, the face of mercy is also the face of the Risen Lord appearing behind locked doors. Think of the disciples in that upper room. They had failed Him. They had fled, denied, and hidden in cowardice. By any human standard, they deserved a rebuke—a "wrathful" accounting of their betrayal. Instead, Jesus breathes on them and says, "Peace be with you." He meets their evil of betrayal not with condemnation, but with a love that heals and redeems.

The first reading from Acts offers a snapshot of the earliest Christian community: a fellowship where mercy was not a theory but a lived reality. They shared possessions, broke bread, and prayed with one accord. Where mercy reigns, unity grows—and where unity flourishes, the Church expands.

We see echoes of that growth today. Across the country, the hunger for what is true and sacred is rising. At Easter this year, Catholic parishes nationwide welcomed a 38% increase in new members. The Archdiocese of Los Angeles alone saw roughly 8,600 catechumens and candidates—a 136% increase. In our own Diocese of Phoenix, 1,600 new brothers and sisters entered the Church—a 23% increase. While statistics cannot capture grace, they hint at a deeper spiritual thirst. Amid confusion and instability, many—especially younger generations—are seeking solidity, protection, and peace. People who once dismissed faith now reach out to the Catholic Church for blessings, for holy water, or even for exorcisms when they sense darkness invading their homes. They instinctively recognize that sacramental grace is real power.

As G.K. Chesterton famously said when asked why he turned to Catholicism: “Because no other religion offers forgiveness of sins.” That statement still rings true. In a world that scarcely believes in sin, the reality of mercy becomes the most compelling evangelization of all. Whether the witness is public, like that of figures such as Charlie Kirk, or hidden in the quiet conversion of ordinary hearts, souls are searching for the “living hope” described in St. Peter’s letter.

The Gateway of Baptism and the Necessity of Confession

St. Peter tells us that in Baptism, God has given us a "new birth" and a "sure hope." Baptism is the gateway. It incorporates us into the Body of Christ, washes away original sin, and places us within the flow of God's mercy. But if Baptism initiates this life, the Eucharist sustains it, and the Sacrament of Reconciliation restores it.

On the very evening of the Resurrection, Jesus conferred the power to forgive sins. He knew that the life of grace poured out from the cross would need a way to be revived when we inevitably stumble. I am reminded of a man I encountered while hearing confessions this Lent. He hadn't been to the sacrament in ten years. His reason? He felt he could "confess directly to God" or rely solely on the Penitential Act at the start of Mass.

While God’s mercy is offered even outside the sacraments, we must look at Christ’s words in today’s Gospel: "Whose sins you forgive are forgiven them, and whose sins you retain are retained." If we only confess in the silence of our hearts, where is the room for the Church to "retain" or "absolve"? Christ established a visible, audible channel for His mercy because we are human. We need to hear the words, "I absolve you," just as the apostles needed to see the wounds in His hands. Therefore, besides direct confession, sacramental confession is also necessary. That’s why the Church mandates it at least once a year.

A Mercy That Transforms

Divine Mercy is infinite and tender, but it is not automatic. It requires a "trusting faith," a sincere repentance, and a firm purpose of amendment. To love a soul is to help it reach holiness. As St. John Chrysostom taught, many are lost for lack of correction. We practice mercy when we admonish the sinner and pray for the straying, as St. James urges us to do.

Our Response

How do we live this? We celebrate it in the Mass. We receive it in the confessional. We find it in the silence of Adoration. But we truly "own" this mercy when we practice the corporal and spiritual works of mercy in our daily lives.

As we go forth today, let the words at the feet of the Divine Mercy image be our constant interior prayer: "Jesus, I trust in Thee." Trust Him with our past failures, trust Him with our present anxieties, and trust Him with the souls of those who have yet to meet His merciful gaze.

 EASTER HOMILY

(Acts 10:34, 37–43; Col 3:1–4; 1 Cor 5:6b–8; Jn 20:1–9; Mt 28:1–10)

Archbishop John Whealon of Hartford (d. August 2, 1991) once shared a deeply personal reflection after undergoing cancer surgery that left him with a permanent colostomy. In one of his last Easter messages, he wrote:

“I am now a member of an association of people who have been wounded by cancer. That association’s symbol is the Phoenix — that ancient bird of Egyptian mythology. The Greek poet Hesiod, eight centuries before Christ, wrote of this legendary creature that, sensing its death near, would fly to Phoenicia, build a nest of aromatic wood, and set itself aflame. From the ashes, a new Phoenix would arise — renewed and radiant.

“The Phoenix, then, is a symbol of immortality, resurrection, and life after death. It beautifully sums up the Easter message. Jesus gave His life, and on the third day rose from the grave. New life sprang forth from the ashes of death.”

Today, we celebrate that very mystery — Christ’s victory over the grave and the gift of eternal life to all who believe. The Phoenix became one of the earliest symbols of the Risen Christ, reminding us that resurrection is not only a future event but a daily call. Each day, like the Phoenix, we rise from the ashes of sin and guilt, renewed by the forgiving love of our living Lord.

Archbishop Whealon could have languished in sorrow or self-pity, but his faith in the Risen Christ opened his eyes to life renewed — a vision he shared with his priests before going home to God.

The Meaning of Easter

Easter is the greatest and most important feast of the Church. It is the birthday of our eternal hope. The very word “Easter” means the feast of fresh flowers — a celebration of life reborn. We rejoice today for three profound reasons:

The Resurrection is the foundation of our faith. It proves that Jesus is truly God. As St. Paul declares: “If Christ has not been raised, then our preaching is in vain and your faith is in vain… But in fact, Christ has been raised from the dead, the first fruits of those who have fallen asleep” (1 Cor 15:14, 17, 20).

Easter is the guarantee of our own resurrection. Jesus said to Martha: “I am the Resurrection and the Life; whoever believes in Me will live, even though he die” (Jn 11:25–26).

Easter gives us hope and courage in our suffering. In a world shadowed by pain, fear, and loss, Easter proclaims that life is still worth living. The Real Presence of the Risen Lord — in our hearts, in the Church, in the Eucharist, and in Heaven — gives meaning both to our personal struggles and to our common prayer.

Faith and the Historical Reality of the Resurrection

Can the Resurrection be called a historical event — did it really happen? Two facts command a historian’s attention:

First, the sudden and unshakable faith of the disciples, strong enough to endure martyrdom.

Second, the testimony they themselves left behind.

When Jesus was arrested and crucified, the disciples fled in fear. They had no expectation of resurrection. Yet within days, something transformed them utterly — something so powerful that it turned despair into conviction and cowardice into courage. That “something” is the historical core of Easter faith.

St. Paul gives the earliest record of this conviction:

“For I delivered to you what I also received: that Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures, that He was buried, and that He rose again on the third day; that He appeared to Cephas, then to the Twelve, then to more than five hundred brethren at once… then to James, then to all the apostles, and last of all, to me” (1 Cor 15:3–8).

The Resurrection was not a mere resuscitation, like that of Lazarus. Christ’s risen life was a new mode of existence — “according to the Spirit.” He could appear and vanish, pass through closed doors, and reveal Himself only to those whom He chose to open the eyes of faith.

Some, like Rudolf Bultmann, have argued that the Resurrection was only a psychological vision — an inner experience or hallucination. But such a claim would itself be the greater miracle! Could so many people, in different times and places, share the same hallucination? Besides, the disciples were ordinary men — fishermen, not mystics. They doubted the first witnesses. Jesus had to “overcome their resistance,” as Scripture says. And what would they gain by preaching a falsehood that led only to persecution and death?

If Christ had not truly risen, how could the Church have begun? How could despairing fishermen become fearless heralds of the Gospel? Every natural explanation creates more puzzles than it solves.

The Faith that Sees

Yet historical analysis alone cannot grasp the mystery. To “see” the Risen Christ requires faith — not blind belief, but the vision that faith opens. As the prophet said in Isaiah 7:9, “Unless you believe, you will not understand.” Faith leads to understanding, and deeper understanding strengthens faith, as St. Anselm taught.

So, this Easter morning, let us hear again the angel’s words:

“Why do you seek the living among the dead?”

Why do we search among mere arguments and theories for the One who is alive and at work in His Church and in our world? Let us go forth, as the angel commanded, to announce to all:

“He is risen — He is risen indeed!”

 

 Good Friday 

"It Is Finished" John 18:1–19:42

Good Friday is the one day in the Christian year when we are not allowed to look away.

Every other day, we can soften the edges. We can speak of Jesus in the warm glow of resurrection, or in the gentle light of his teaching. We can keep him at a comfortable distance — admirable, inspiring, a moral example, a spiritual guide. But today, the Church plants us at the foot of a cross and says: look at this. Do not move on too quickly. Stay here.   So we stay.

There is a question that haunts Good Friday, and it is the question the crowd shouts at the man on the cross: "If you are the Son of God, come down."

It is, in its way, a reasonable question. If you have the power — if you are who you say you are — why are you still up there?

We have our own versions of this question. We ask them in hospital rooms and at gravesides and in the long, dark nights when things have gone irreparably wrong. If you are who you say you are, why don't you do something? Why don't you come down from this? Why don't you fix it?

The answer Good Friday gives us is not an argument. It is an image. It is a man who will not come down.

Not because he cannot. John's Gospel is at pains to show us that Jesus is never simply a victim of events spiraling beyond his control. When soldiers come to arrest him in the garden, he steps forward and asks "Whom are you looking for? "When they say his name, they fall to the ground. He surrenders himself. When Pilate tells him he has the power to release or crucify him, Jesus answers with quiet authority: "You would have no power over me unless it had been given you from above."

He is not helpless. He is choosing. Every step to the cross is a step he takes freely, with open eyes. So why does he not come down?

Because if he comes down, we are still lost. Because what is happening on that cross — as ugly and violent and unjust as it is — is not a tragedy interrupted by God but the answer of God to the deepest tragedy of human existence. The problem is not just that things go wrong in the world. The problem is the fracture at the center — our estrangement from the source of life, the long accumulation of everything we have done and left undone, the weight of a world turned in on itself.

He stays because someone has to bear it. And he is the only one who can.

John tells us that when the soldiers came to hasten the deaths of the three men on their crosses, they found that Jesus was already dead. But one soldier drove a spear into his side, and at once — John is almost clinical about this — blood and water came out.

John says something unusual then. He says: "He who saw this has testified so that you also may believe. His testimony is true, and he knows that he tells the truth."

It is the only time in the Gospel that the narrator steps in to vouch for himself this directly. I was there. I saw it. I am telling you the truth.

Why does that matter? Because what poured from his side — blood and water — is everything. The early church read in that wound the whole sacramental life of the faith: baptism and Eucharist, water and blood, the means by which the life that died on that cross keeps flowing into the world. The wound is not just evidence of death. It is the source of life.

The Church is born from that wound. We are born from that wound.

There is something profound here about what it means to be a Christian. We do not follow a teacher whose ideas outlived him. We do not draw inspiration from a martyr whose example emboldens us. We are nourished by what flows from his broken body. We are, in the most literal sense the tradition can bear, kept alive by his death.

Then there is the burial.

John tells us that Joseph of Arimathea — a secret disciple, afraid — came forward. And Nicodemus — the one who had come to Jesus by night, who had asked "How can anyone be born after having grown old?" — came too. He brought a hundred pounds of myrrh and aloes. An extravagant, almost absurd amount.

These are not the bold ones. These are not Peter or James or John. They are the ones who loved from a distance, who kept their heads down, who waited. And now, when it is too late to do anything useful — now that it is over, now that there is nothing to gain and everything to lose — they come out of the shadows.

They wrap him carefully. They lay him in a new tomb in a garden.

I find this detail quietly devastating. The last hands to touch Jesus before the resurrection are the hands of the fearful and the late. The ones who did not speak up when it might have mattered. And yet John does not judge them. He simply tells us what they did: they came, they wrapped him, they laid him down with care.

There is grace in that. For all of us who have loved poorly, who arrived late, who kept our faith private for too long — there is grace in the fact that God uses even the timid, even the secret disciples, even those who show up only at the end.

Then we come to those final words from the cross: "It is finished."

In Greek, it is a single word: Tetelestai. It was the word written across a paid debt in the ancient world — paid in full. It is not the word of a man whose strength has finally given out. It is not resignation or defeat. It is completion. It is accomplishment.

It is finished is not the end of something. It is the end of everything that stood between us and God.

This is why the day is called Good Friday. Not because what happened was pleasant. Not because suffering is good. But because what was accomplished in that suffering is the best news the world has ever received: the long estrangement is over. The debt is paid. The way is open.

We do not leave here with that fully in our hands yet. Tonight and tomorrow, the Church waits. The altar is stripped. The tomb is sealed. We sit with the silence and the weight of it.

But we wait, as John's Gospel wants us to know even here, in a garden. The last time the Gospel of John mentioned a garden was in the beginning — "In the beginning was the Word." Before the fall, before the fracture, there was a garden. And now, at the end of all this, there is a garden again.

Something is being undone. Something is being made new.

We do not say it yet. Tonight, we only stand at the cross and receive what he has given. We let it be enough. We let it be — as he said — finished.  Amen.

 Holy Thursday Homily: Exodus 12:1–8, 11–14; 1 Corinthians 11:23–26; John 13:1–15

We celebrate three great anniversaries today—three sacred memories that define who we are as disciples of Christ. On Holy Thursday, we commemorate:

The anniversary of the first Holy Mass,

The anniversary of the institution of the ministerial priesthood, and

The anniversary of Christ’s new commandment of love: “Love one another as I have loved you” (Jn 13:34).

Each of these events reveals God’s profound desire to be with His people, to forgive them, and to unite them in a covenant of love that will never end.

The Passover Transformed

Holy Thursday brings us back to the roots of our faith—to the night when Jesus transformed the Jewish Passover into the Christian Eucharist. The Jewish Passover itself was already a deep expression of thanksgiving and liberation. Historically, it united two ancient feasts: the shepherds’ Pass over, when they offered a lamb before migrating their flocks, and the farmers’ Massoth, a feast of unleavened bread offered in gratitude for the harvest. God wove these traditions together into a single meal of salvation: the annual remembrance of Israel’s liberation from slavery in Egypt and their journey toward the Promised Land.

In our first reading from Exodus, God gives His people two instructions: first, to prepare for liberation through a ritual meal—the sacrifice of a perfect lamb eaten in haste and faith; and second, to make a symbolic mark—to paint their doorposts with the blood of that lamb. This blood became their salvation, a sign that death would “pass over” them, not touch them.

Centuries later, in an upper room in Jerusalem, Jesus fulfilled and transformed this sacred ritual. John’s Gospel tells us that, during the Passover meal, Jesus rose from the table to wash His disciples’ feet. Then, taking bread and wine, He offered something that no human priest before Him had ever dared to offer: His own Body and Blood. “This is my Body… This is my Blood… Do this in memory of me.”

At that moment, the blood of the lamb painted on the doorposts found its ultimate fulfillment. The old covenant sign of deliverance now became a new covenant in Christ’s blood—offered not to save from Egypt, but from sin and death itself.

One Sacrifice, One Event

The Last Supper and the Cross are not two separate events, but two inseparable moments of one saving mystery. What began at the table found its completion on Calvary. In both places, Jesus gave His Body; in both places, He poured out His Blood. The altar of the upper room becomes the altar of the Cross.

Scholars long puzzled over the apparent differences in the Gospel accounts. John’s Gospel presents Jesus dying at the very hour when the Passover lambs were being sacrificed in the Temple. Matthew, Mark, and Luke, on the other hand, describe the Last Supper as a Passover meal. How could both be true?

Modern biblical study, aided by the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls, offers a compelling explanation. It suggests that Jesus celebrated the Passover in accordance with the Qumran calendar—one day earlier than the temple authorities. The Qumran community, awaiting a new and purified Temple, offered the Passover without lambs. In this light, Jesus, too, celebrated His Passover without a lamb—because He Himself was the Lamb. He freely offered His own Body and Blood as the new sacrifice.

Thus, when He said, “No one takes my life from me, but I lay it down of my own accord” (Jn 10:18), He was not speaking symbolically. He truly offered His life—first under the forms of bread and wine, then in visible sacrifice upon the Cross.

Only in Christ do the ancient rites of the first Passover reach their true meaning. His blood marks not a doorpost, but the hearts of the redeemed. His flesh, once broken, becomes our food for eternal life.

The Gift of the Priesthood

From this Passover meal flowed the sacred gift of the priesthood. In our second reading, St. Paul recounts what he himself received and handed down: “The Lord Jesus, on the night he was handed over, took bread…” (1 Cor 11:23). From the beginning, the Church has faithfully celebrated the Lord’s Supper as the heart of her life.

To ensure that this sacrifice would never cease, Christ instituted the sacrament of Holy Orders. He commanded His apostles, “Do this in memory of me.” Every priest, therefore, is ordained to act in persona Christi, “in the person of Christ.” Through their ministry, the Eternal High Priest continues to feed His people, forgive their sins, and proclaim His Word.

Washing the Disciples’ Feet

Before sharing His Body and Blood, Jesus kneels at His disciples’ feet. This gesture shocked them then and should still shock us now. Not even slaves were required to perform so demeaning a task. Yet the Son of God does so with tenderness and humility. The washing of feet was both prophetic and symbolic—prophetic because it pointed to the greater self-emptying He would soon show on the Cross; symbolic because it revealed the model of discipleship: “What I have done for you, you also must do.”

Every act of humble service becomes a participation in this mystery. Parents who rise in the night to care for a sick child, caregivers who tend to the elderly, teachers who guide neglected students, health care workers who attend to the most menial tasks—all perform modern acts of foot-washing. Each reflects the love of Christ made visible in the Eucharist. In every act of self-giving, we make the Eucharist real beyond the walls of the church.

 

Tonight’s liturgy, then, unites the three great sacraments of Holy Thursday: the Eucharist, the priesthood, and the commandment of love that gives meaning to both.

The Stole and the Towel

An Italian bishop, Tonino Bello, beautifully captured this meaning in the title of his final pastoral letter, written from his deathbed on Holy Thursday in 1993: “The Stole and the Towel.” [A stole is the symbol of authority of the priesthood, to preach, administer the sacraments and shepherd the faithful. It represents the yoke of Christ, placed on both shoulders. A deacon has it on one shoulder.] The towel [Jesus used to wash and wipe the feet of the Apostles] represents communion with humanity—union with those we are called to serve.

The Towel, Not the Sword

Christianity spread not by the sword like Islam but by the towel. Jesus Himself rejected violence as a means of spreading His kingdom: “Put your sword back into its place, for all who take the sword will perish by the sword” (Mt 26:52). The early Church conquered hearts—through charity, mercy, and service to the poor and forgotten. The towel must always remain in her hands Christians.

Living as a Eucharistic People

The Eucharist is not complete until it transforms our lives. To receive the Lord is to be sent forth by Him. Every Mass ends with a mission: “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” [Today we do not announce that, signifying that the sacramental Mass does not end with the last supper but with Jesus’ death on the cross on Calvary (we remember that tomorrow) and finally with his resurrection, at Easter vigil] Only at Easter Vigil you will hear now that the Mass is ended.

Our mission is to bring His love, mercy, forgiveness, and humility wherever we go.

Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper offers a touching visual meditation on this truth. In his famous painting, every disciple is seated on the same side of the table. When someone once asked why, Leonardo gave a simple but profound answer: “So that there may be plenty of room for us to join them.”

There is always room for us at the table of the Lord—room to sit beside Peter and John, Matthew and James, to allow Jesus to wash our feet, and to let him renew us with His Body and Blood. When Peter refused to have his feet washed, what did Jesus reply, "If I do not wash you, you have no part with me" (John 13:8). We should be willing to be served by Christ, his body the Church by the sacraments.  

So, if you are willing, pull up your chair, get your feet washed and go out with the towel and wash the feet of others, remembering his command: Do this in remembrance of me. 

 Palm Sunday/Passion Sunday

Holy Week begins today — our journey with the Lord from palms to Passion. Both moments reveal one central truth: the Divine Kingship of Jesus.

As Jesus entered Jerusalem, the crowds cried out, “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!” (Mt 21:9). The word hosanna in Hebrew means “save, we pray.” The people were pleading for deliverance — not only from the burden of the Roman Empire but from every form of oppression and despair.

Yet by the end of that same week, their Hosannas had turned into “Crucify him!” The One welcomed on a donkey as King was soon carried out of the city lifeless — the innocent victim of the cruelest death the Empire could devise. Passion Sunday reminds us how quickly human hearts can shift when love demands more than praise.

At the heart of Holy Week stands the Easter Triduum, beginning with the Eucharist on Holy Thursday evening and concluding with the Easter Vigil on Holy Saturday night. These sacred days are the most solemn of the Church year because in them we celebrate the work of our redemption — the supreme act of love that changed the world forever.

We use the word Passion to describe the Lord’s suffering, but the term also means deep feeling or burning love. Jesus’ Passion was both: the physical agony He endured and the spiritual intensity of His love. He suffered His Passion because He was filled with a great passion — for God and for humanity. He died because He was utterly committed to revealing the Father’s love.

What we celebrate this week is not only Jesus’ dying and rising, but also our own dying to sin and rising with Him into new life. Participating attentively in the liturgies of Holy Week renews our faith, deepens our discipleship, and strengthens our bond with the Lord.

The Passion of Christ is the ultimate labor of love. The scourging, the nails, the cross — all were outward signs of an inner fire: His unwavering commitment to mercy and truth. The Cross is where two passions meet — a passion for God’s truth and a passion for humanity’s salvation. When these collided with a world closed to both, the result was suffering. Yet love triumphed.

So we ask: What is the great passion of my life? Am I willing to bear some “passion” — the sacrifice and struggle that faithful love requires?

Jesus poured out His life for us. As we hold our blessed palms today, may they become signs of our desire to pour out our lives in love for Him and for one another.